All Roads Lead to Home
by inkbender
Summary: As one of the last remaining inhabitants of a dying planet trying to survive on Earth, John's life consists of endless roads. Reinterpretation of "I Am Number Four" through the eyes of McKinley High's Glee club members. John/Quinn; Eventual AU. DISCONTINUED.
1. Prologue: In Media Res

**Prologue: In Media Res**

The alien soldier's cannon arm swings up, and John tenses, his hand flying to the pocketknife hidden in his back pocket. But the cannon doesn't stop on him; it continues all the way until it's pointing straight up into the sky, silhouetted by the bright full moon. As John watches, his protective bubble of fire roaring around him, the cannon begins to pull life force into itself from the trees around it. Flitting gray shadows burst from within the forest life, swirling in the air to coalesce as a shimmering white brilliance in the barrel of the Mogodorian's cannon. Once the trees have been completely drained of life energy, they collapse into fine, powdery ash.

This is what the Mogodorians did to their own world—they drained every last drop of their planet's life to wage war and death upon others. In their desire for technological advancement, the Mogodorians killed the land they stood on over the course of several generations. Then they moved onto John's home planet, Lorien, drained its life force within a week to fuel the weaponry they'd developed on Mogodore, and transformed John's home into a lifeless hunk of rock. In all his nightmarish visions since his powers have awakened, he has only been able to stand by and look on helplessly as fireworks turn into fiery explosions, as towering monsters crush wailing children and splatter their innocent blood on crumbling buildings.

_Lives of thousands are extinguished in a single night. Out of the entire planet's population, only eighteen are spared: nine children of the Garde, a group tasked with caring for all life on the planet and genetically bestowed with various supernatural powers; and their un-powered guardians called the Cêpan, who educate the Garde and run society. Those eighteen Garde-Cêpan pairs just happen to be touring the airfield when all hell breaks loose. Everybody else outside in the public square dies fighting for their world. John's Garde father fights with all the powers he has at his disposal until his mind and body collapse. Adults try to protect defenseless children. Bodies are strewn carelessly across the ground, Cêpan and Garde alike, like broken rag dolls lying in pools of their own crimson lives. Of all those people, only John and seventeen others plus the pilot survive. The survivors can only watch in horror as the Mogodorians immediately begin to suck life energy out of the very planet itself, and entire sections of forest and wilderness fade from green to gray as everything disintegrates to ash._

Now, John's got to defend the Lorien legacy. The beginning of the end of the world is happening all over again on Earth, but this time, John can do something about it.

The pocketknife, small and almost useless, is gripped in his hand. The cannon flashes radiantly, the soldier drowned in its luminescence, but John rushes forward blindly anyways. He lands a deep punch into the soldier's unyielding stomach, and John's shield of fire engulfs both of them. A cutting ring splits the air, and John brings up the pocketknife to parry the sword racing down on his head. The glowing sword slides away from his face, but the strain is still enough to shatter John's tiny blade and continue downwards to make contact with John's shoulder.

Crackling electricity races through his body and a tiny explosion blasts him backwards thirty feet. For a couple seconds, John simply lies there, trying to regain control over his shaking, electrocuted limbs. However, the soldier doesn't press its advantage; it breathes raggedly, steam rising off its charred flesh. It takes John a moment to realize that he unintentionally burned the soldier when he crashed into it with his shield of fire.

His body already aches from the short encounter, but the soldier has only just begun. The life-force cannon has been charged—and now it's pointing straight at him. Before John can react, a brilliant light is hurtling towards him. Within its hollow depths come the ragged forms of his guardian, Henri; his girlfriend, Quinn Fabray; his best friend, Mike Chang; even his dog, Bernie Kosar. And they're all screaming and crying, with fragile hands reaching towards him, pulling him down to frozen, quiet death. He makes eye contact with Quinn's cruel caricature. Her blonde hair flows in thin tatters around her sallow face, but her hazel eyes catch and hold him—tortured, pleading, drawing him in.

_Please. Please don't leave me. _

He can't take his eyes off her as white death comes to engulf him.

* * *

_A/N: "In Media Res" is Latin for "In the middle of the action." So literally, this starts in the middle of the action; but in later chapters, I'll start from the beginning. Fox owns Glee and HarperCollins Publisher owns __I Am Number Four__. I just happened to notice Dianna Agron plays both Quinn Fabray from Glee and Sarah Hart from the "Number Four" movie, and both Glee and the "Number Four" movie are set in Ohio = inspiration._

_Chapter One will start shortly after the start of the second season of Glee, though character histories will be changed to fit this AU. Reviews, constructive criticisms, and flames appreciated!_


	2. First Impressions

_Four Months Earlier_

**John Smith**

He is Number Four.

_One dies in Malaysia. John is nine years old at the time, living in New Mexico, and he's almost convinced himself that the bright flashes and screaming he seems to remember are simply echoes of a faint nightmare. However, he's painfully reminded that those memories are very real when the charmed Loric amulet hanging around his neck flares in the middle of the night. A hot, searing light flares on his ankle, and a circle reminiscent of his own amulet is branded there. From this point on, he knows that the Mogodorians have found them on planet Earth, and the first of the nine Loriens has just been killed._

_Two dies in England. John is twelve years old and in the middle of school in Colorado. The pain is bearable now that he knows what it means. Another Lorien has been found, another brutally murdered. The sheer heat lights his sock on fire, and the whole school is evacuated from the premises as a panicking teacher sprays him with a fire extinguisher and takes him to the ER. The humiliation from the ordeal is extreme, but he and his guardian Cêpan, Henri, leave it all behind in the rearview mirror of the truck._

_Three dies in Kenya. John has just turned sixteen in Florida and is at the few social events he's ever been to. Somebody has taken out their parents' boat and invited a slew of excited teenagers to sail out a couple miles into the Gulf of Mexico; a girl who has a crush on him drags him along, so he stands to the side, observing the partying teenagers. Since he and Henri are constantly moving, always staying under the radar, John doesn't even try to forge any solid connections—nothing that will bind him down. It's a preventative measure, so that, when the inevitable move comes, he won't have to painfully tear himself from those friends. It also prevents anybody from looking too close into his past or getting suspicious of his previous activities, so he maintains that impersonal distance. When the third circular scar manifests, he dives off the boat as soon as possible amidst screams and shouts of protest. He doesn't care that all the people on a boat two miles into the Gulf of Mexico will probably be frantically searching for him for the next few hours; they might even call the police. By then, he and Henri will be long gone. Any existence of Henri and Daniel Jones—birth certificates, passports, bank accounts—will be gone. The only thing left behind will be a memory, and even that will fade within a couple weeks._

He is Number Four. And the Mogodorians will be after him next.

This inevitable fact is what brings Number Four from sunny, warm outskirts of Florida, where he was known as Daniel Jones, to the isolated, chilly plains of Lima, Ohio, with a new identity: John Smith. Henri pulls the truck up to a dilapidated, broken down house, and within twenty minutes of touring the house with a prim, all-business real estate agent who brings out the superior aspects of the run-down shack quite skillfully, the place is rented, the lease signed, and everything moved in. Before Judy Fabray leaves, she softens slightly and tells John about her daughter his age that he could make friends with. He smiles in return, nods, and discards the idea promptly.

**Quinn Fabray**

Quinn Fabray walks through the doors of William McKinley High School, bright autumn sunshine flooding in behind her as she takes a first step into the commons. Everything's still the same as she left it on Friday. Skaters hang just inside the doors, laughing and exchanging crude comments. Nerds scuttle to classrooms early; coordinated preppies stand in huge groups, every so often breaking and melting into other groups. Uniformed cheerleaders move in packs, skirting coyly around similar packs of football players in decorated lettatherman jackets. Same old, same old.

She smiles genuinely at Mercedes Jones as the sassy girl sashays past with Artie Abrams; when she'd gotten pregnant last year and her uptight, conservative father had thrown her out of the house, the kind-hearted black girl had taken her in and introduced her to a completely new culture. The memories drift back to her of their own accord.

_Engulfed in soulful music that reverberates throughout the entire household, sharing a bedroom with Mercedes and spilling out painful secrets in the dark nights when she can't sleep, swaying in the vibrant church congregation as Mercedes belts out gospel—it's so different, Quinn realizes over the two month stay. It's so much more alive and free than her quiet house. She can escape from the love triangle between herself, Finn Hudson, and Noah Puckerman and simply sit by herself on the Joneses' front porch swing, rocking her unborn baby gently. She doesn't have to deal with Puck's promiscuity or Finn's cool detachment. She doesn't have to pretend that she doesn't notice when people stare openly at the growing life inside her or whisper behind her back. And when the baby finally comes shortly after Regionals, she has a greater ability to look at the big picture. Life is beautiful; it doesn't hinge solely on high school. Quinn seeks to preserve that beauty through photography, and so she returns to school and transforms her hobby into a photography club. _

_She's almost got her life back on track when Finn tries to kiss her while they're rehearsing a duet, as if the conflict between them had never happened. The affair tears her so deeply that she takes drastic measures to avoid his company: shortly after summer begins, Quinn accompanies the Joneses down to New Orleans for the majority of summer vacation. The big break allows her to take a huge step back and reevaluate her journey, and she returns to Lima, Ohio with a new outlook on life. In response, she finds that McKinley High School is not completely composed of stereotypical cliques; there are some who make friends based personality, not position. Now, she knows somebody from almost every clique in the school: Tyson, a shy guy who can only talk to girls when drunk; Beth, president of at least three different clubs and volunteer at the local hospital; Troy, the school's resident technician; Vanessa, the environmentalist hippie. _

Quinn strolls through the indoor commons, looking for familiar faces. She slips from one group to the next, capturing friends and faces with her camera while engaging in the small talk of classes and who did what over the weekend. She spots another friend's face in the outdoor commons and transitions outside; it's in the middle of the sea of faces streaming between the indoor and outdoor commons that she catches a face that she hasn't seen before, and it stops her in her tracks.

It's the new student her mom told her about two days ago. He looks older than the sixteen-year old her mother had described to her. He's got a wide, tall frame and has a tense runner's build, standing to the side of the commons underneath a flaming orange oak tree and glancing around uncertainly. She puts on a dazzling smile and strides towards the new guy, waving when he meets her eyes. He looks a little confused and glances over his shoulder at no one in particular, then looks back at her as if to ask, _Who, me?_ The sequence of reactions almost makes her laugh, and she lifts her camera to capture the moment. He promptly raises his hands to cover her face, and she lets out the laugh this time.

"Don't be shy," she admonishes.

"I'm not," he replies. "I'm protecting your lens; my face might break it."

"Try smiling; this camera runs on happy faces." She frowns as he half-heartedly gives her a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Show your teeth," she instructs, putting her eye to the eyepiece. He seriously looks like he wants to run. Before she can awkwardly introduce herself, however, a stray dog shows up and begins rubbing against his leg and whining pitifully. The new student's shyness eases as he pets the beagle gingerly, and it promptly collapses belly up, its tongue lolling out. She snaps a couple pictures of his soft smile, the sunlight filtering through the orange leaves to gleam on his blonde hair, but the dog suddenly rolls right side up and back away, growling slightly. It doesn't approach again when she tries to take more pictures. "Do you know that dog?" she grins.

"Nope," he replies, staring after the beagle. "Never seen him before."

"He seems to really like you." She lets the camera hang from her neck, offers a hand. "You're John, I'm assuming?"

"What?"

"I'm Quinn Fabray. My mom's your real estate agent; she said I should look out for the new kid; you're the only one to show up yet."

"Oh," he says sheepishly. "Your mom. Yeah."

"Are you going to shake my hand?" she grins, waving it in front of his face. Red rushes up his neck, but he shakes her hand firmly, a genuine smile coming to his face. His hand is extremely warm, though not uncomfortably so. It's a strange experience, him almost sending warmth into her. She feels a rush of euphoria as she takes a step back and grabs her camera again.

"Do you know what classes you're going to take yet?"

John shakes his head. "No, I haven't even registered."

She begins stepping backwards slowly. "Astronomy elective, second period," she hints, before turning to catch the friend she'd originally been heading for.

**Mike Chang**

Mike Chang peers through the blurry lens of his glasses. The light outside is much brighter than inside, and he see more clearly. As a fly on the wall, Mike observes and analyzes a lot of high school interaction. For instance, he observes Quinn Fabray, the beautiful blonde, talking happily with the tall, new kid. And he sees Finn Hudson standing among his football buddies, stealing possessive glances at the two blondes and the dog conversing underneath the oak tree. When Quinn leaves, Finn's group saunters past the new student; as the two paths cross, Finn swings his backpack off his shoulder, catching the new student. The new guy stumbles and whirls around, staring after the pack. When he springs forward angrily, Mike shoves his stuff into his backpack and jogs over to intervene. "Hey, I know you're new here…?"

There's a pause as the blonde stops his pursuit to evaluate Mike. "John Smith."

"Okay, John, let me tell you how this place runs." Mike plants his feet and waits till Finn's pack disappears. "That was Finn Hudson, quarterback of the football team. He can be a nice guy, but he gets pretty ugly when people mess around with Quinn. He's sort of at the top of the social ladder, so you should try not to get involved."

"Why not?" The reply is rather hostile, and Mike cringes.

"Ex. It's, um, pretty complicated."

Mike can't see John's features behind the blurry lenses he's wearing, but his tall, wide frame is rather imposing. The voice that comes is gentler. "I've got time."

Mike takes a deep breath, turning to face him. "Quinn used to be one of the most popular cheerleaders last year, but then she got pregnant by Finn's best friend Puck and Finn dumped her."

John looks at him hard, but this time, it's a quiet surprise that colors his voice. "She was pregnant?"

Mike nods. "Juiciest gossip this school has ever had. Quinn fell pretty hard."

The next voice tone is almost admiring. "And she still…"

"She redefined herself. Finn still likes her pre-preggers ice queen identity though." The words are out before Mike can swallow them back, and he glances around nervously. The five-minute bell rings.

"He wants his own personal cheerleader back?" John queries.

Mike bites his lip anxiously; he feels like he's said too much. "I don't know," he settles, stepping back a couple feet and pushing up his glasses. "Um, yeah. Just be careful around Quinn."

"Thanks." The head dips slightly, and, in with a meeker tone, John asks, "Do you know where the office is?"

xxxxx

Mike doesn't see John again till second period, Astronomy. The elective is rather disappointing, merely going over the solar system containing the nine planets he's known from first grade. Sure, it is slightly interesting to hear Mrs. Burton discuss in length the features of the waterless, lifeless Mars—but Mike's more interested in the existence of life on other planets in other solar systems. He sits in the very back of the classroom where Mrs. Burton can't see him flipping through his magazine, _They Walk Among Us._ Aliens might as be already here, disguised as humans. His own father had researched extensively into the matter, and the Mogodorians Mr. Chang had been looking into took him away. The glasses Mike's wearing right now is proof of that; they were left behind when his father mysteriously disappeared from his workplace.

The door squeaking open draws his attention to the front of the room, where Mr. Figgins, the principal, is pushing John gently into the room. Mrs. Burton stops mid-lecture, flustered, then turns and plasters on a fake smile. "And what's your name?"

"D—John. John Smith." Despite not being able to see across the room through his father's glasses, even he can see John flush red. _Not good in front people,_ Mike muses.

John makes his way towards the back of the sunlight-filled room. Each of the tables fit two people; there aren't any open seats except the one right next to Mike. When John passes between Finn and Quinn two rows ahead, he suddenly trips but catches himself. The room is silent as John turns to glare at Finn, who's staring innocently at Mrs. Burton. For the John's own wellbeing, Mike prays that he doesn't pick a fight. But no, John keeps his intense stare directed at the side of Finn's head, and a collective taunt crescendos around the room.

John is in trouble now. He could have just stayed low, kept a low profile and silently worked his way up the ladder until he had more power to confront the alpha leader. But here he is, pond scum, challenging Finn's authority. John's harsh voice cuts through the classroom jeering, silencing it instantly. "Did you want something?"

Finn turns his head slowly, as if only just acknowledging his presence. Mike can't see the conflict through his glasses, but he can feel the nervous energy tingling in the air, and he hears the hint of an arrogant sneer in Finn's voice. "What are you talking about?"

"You just tried to trip me. And then you ran into me in the commons earlier. Did you want to start something?"

Quinn tries to shoot a glare around John at Finn, but Finn's eyes are still locked with John's in a power struggle. Even Mrs. Burton is silent, twiddling nervously in front of the classroom. John's got the advantage, towering over Finn who's sitting in a chair, but Finn can't retaliate; he's got a newspaper interview tomorrow. He can't do anything but sit there and back down, because anything he says or does won't get him out the easy way. He submits, averting his eyes, and John snorts, "I thought so," before continuing to the back and sitting next to Mike.

"Way to stay under the radar," Mike whispers. John ignores him, casually pulling out a notebook.

A couple minutes pass into post-fight silence, with everybody except the perpetrators stealing excited glances at each other. John is staring down at the table in intense concentration, but he's not even taking notes; his hands are tightly clenched and shoved under the table. Mike starts in surprise when John lets out a quiet, suppressed hiss. From these close quarters, Mike can see that a thin film of sweat covers John's face. Mike observes him for a few minutes, but when no new developments occur other than excessive sweating and stony silence, he returns to reading his article.

About fifteen minutes later, John lets out another suppressed gasp, and Mike glances over briefly. If anything, John looks even more unsettled, his face twisted in pain, sweat pouring out his pores and dripping down his neck. His hands are still shoved underneath the two-seater table, and though the morning sunlight floods the astronomy room with light, Mike imagines that he sees a blue glow there. But before he can fully process that thought, John lets out a strangled cry and leaps from his seat, tearing through surprised students to the front of the room, whereupon he dashinges out of the door. Silence blankets the entire classroom for a few seconds, and then the bell rings.

**John Smith**

His hands are burning intensely, as if he's holding two red-hot blocks of metal in his palms. In his mad stumble down the hallways, John somehow manages to find his way to his locker and leans heavily on it. Blue light. There are blue lights squeezing out between his fingers, carrying with them the warmth he's felt in his entire body since his stare-down with Finn. Upon sitting down next to the Asian nerd who'd approached him in the commons, the light came, a soft cerulean glow which he tried to hide in his fists. The overpowering warmth, sharp spikes of pain in the middle of his palms, the lights he couldn't hide: it had all started with the rush of emotions when he refused to back down and blend in with the crowd. It was satisfying to see Finn's eyes glance downwards, a sense of pride in standing up for himself and not letting Finn push him around.

A pair of hands shoves him suddenly into his locker. Speak of the devil. The subsequent bang sounds like a gunshot in his sensitive ears, and, disoriented, he slumps to the ground.

"Not so tough without teachers around, huh?" Finn ridicules. "Nobody behind you and you fall right over."

A sizable crowd is gathering around them. Within the first period of class, he's already attracted so much attention. Most likely everybody now sees him as the new kid who immediately stood up against the king of the hill, and now the king has no choice but to obliterate the opposition. Regret wells up in him as he feels his guardian's disappointment. _Stay under the radar, John_._ The Mogodorians are out to kill you, and they will stop at nothing. The moment you draw attention, whether positive or negative, to yourself, they'll be onto us._

John shuts his eyes briefly, mentally replying to his guardian's warning._ I'm sorry, Henri._ With sudden resolve, he pulls himself to his feet, barging through the tight wall of people in front of him to break free. He knows it looks cowardly, especially after he stared Finn down in the middle of class. But he can't let this conflict drag on; he's got to end it quick. He also feels like his hands are about to be seared off, and he cares more about relieving that pain than giving out good first impressions.

He can hear Finn and his buddies mocking his back. He can hear Quinn yelling (though whether it's after him or at Finn, he can't tell). He can hear a scramble of frantic noises as he tears past random students. None of it registers more than the pain screaming through his hands and the alarm at this strange occurrence. He almost collides with a kid in a wheelchair, barely averting disaster by using the handles as levers to half-vault around. The paraplegic slams loudly into lockers as John skids around a corner and runs between two Cheerios, severing their weak pinkie link; the rest of the cheerleaders squawk indignantly as he parts their numbers. People are everywhere and he can't see them through the sweat running into his eyes, the pain and panic making his vision go red. In the first deserted hallway he finds, he grabs a door handle and pulls himself in. Red light bulbs stand over long sinks full of water with strips of film hanging above them. John doesn't see any of these, instead opting to plunge his glowing hands in the cold water. They keep glowing, still sitting like two blue fireballs in his palms, completely undiminished. The sheer panic at what's happening to him takes over, and he crumples to the floor, body curled protectively around his fisted hands.

Seconds, minutes, hours blur into one continuum, when somebody above him calls his name, shaking his shoulder gently. "John? John!" His bleary eyes sweep up and find Henri's concerned face. Relief washes through him. His Cêpan must know what's happening to his hands. He releases the breath he didn't know he was holding, pushing all the stale air out of his lungs. The lights in his hands flicker, but still beam brightly in the dark room.

"What's—what's happening to me?" John moans as Henri helps him sit up. His hands are still clenched together, hot blue light spilling occasionally between them. Henri holds his hands gently in his own.

"It's your first Legacy," he whispers.

"F…flashlight hands?"

Henri shakes his head urgently. "I'll explain it to you later. Can you walk to the truck?"

John sits there, catching his breath. The calming effect Henri has on him is profound, but he still takes a while to fully recover. When he does, his hands are still beaming, illuminating sinks, film strips, and old plumbing as he shifts around. A photography classroom. He wonders if Quinn comes here often.

John gets to his feet. The world sways; the red light bulbs leave streaming trails behind them as they weave in front of him. The bell rings; a stampede of footsteps echo through the halls shortly afterwards. Has it really been that long? Has he lain in this room for the entirety of third period?

Henri nudges him. "You think you can walk through those people without falling over, sport?"

John swallows nervously and nods. "There might be a class in here. We…we should get out."

Henri glances around. "You got your bag? Cell phone?"

John winces. "I… I left it in the classroom. Astronomy."

"You should have kept it with you," Henri reprimands. "We can't afford to make any mistakes, even small ones. Which classroom?"

"Astronomy. Sorry, I couldn't stop thinking about why my hands wanted to burn themselves off."

Henri leaves without reply, stepping casually outside. The burning sensation in John's hands is fading, but the light is undiminished, so he shoves them in his pocket and starts for the slightly opened door.

Somebody else pushes it open.

* * *

_A/N: T__hanks to my beta The Imperfectionist, who goes above and beyond to translate the frenzied ideas in my head into actual story, and definitely helped make this story accessible to both Glee and I am Number Four fans (this started out as a Number Four only fic). __It would be greatly appreciated if you'd take the time to leave behind reviews, flames, criticisms, whatever. I_f any of you out there miss something in the other fandom, please drop me a review or PM. 


	3. Forward Motion

_A/N: A couple (major) changes to the Glee-verse: Sam Evans has been replaced by John Smith as the new transfer student. Rachel Berry is not a part of the Glee club and has never been, though she will appear later. Sunshine Corazon takes Rachel's place as the cheerful female lead of the Glee Club. Artie and Tina are still going out, though their relationship is steadily getting rockier; they, Puck/Lauren, and Brittana are the couples. The PTA finally cracked down on Slushies; the Gleeks have risen from sub-basement since last season and aren't openly scorned, but the overarching social ladder still prevents them from holding much power._

_Please leave a review, it's the most direct way of letting me know there are people actually notice this work. Two reviews so far for 10,000 words makes me a little sad._

* * *

**Mercedes Jones**

Mercedes steps into the darkroom. Usually she's the first to come to class; her locker is one of the few close to the converted janitor's closet, and she's eager to develop the roll she finished off yesterday. However, there's somebody already in the room, a tall silhouette that briefly shocks her. "Hello?"

"Sorry," the voice replies, and he steps shyly into the light spilling from the hallway, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. She's never seen him before, but she knows instantly that he's John Smith. Gossip spreads like wildfire through McKinley High, and rumors already got it that he picked a fight with Finn over Quinn. That matter almost encroaches on her territory—Quinn is her sister from another mister, and to have Finn constantly hovering over Quinn really sets Mercedes on edge. However, Quinn prefers to step around the problem and evade the situation. On the other hand, Mercedes wants to dish it out right now, scream at Finn that _she's not yours anymore_. The only thing holding her back is the realization that Quinn's got to deal with Finn on her own time, or else she'll never get full closure—so Mercedes holds herself from knocking Finn around a bit.

Finn used to be such a sweet guy, if a little naïve and jealous. But when Quinn started avoiding him and suddenly left Lima with Mercedes for the entire summer, a more aggressive side of the football player came out. Now, Quinn and Finn are both trapped in the same, small space called high school. Quinn can't run away now, and Finn isn't backing down; anybody standing in between them has been brutally plowed over. Including John.

Mercedes catches John's arm as he tries to slip past, and it is slick with sweat and warm to the touch. _What has he been doing in here?_ The rumors went that John had fled almost immediately with his tail between his legs when Finn approached him in the halls. "Hold on, John," she says softly, but firmly. "What did Finn do to you?"

He stops, almost out the door. For a long moment, they stand there in silence, with her hand still clutching his sweaty, warm elbow. She can feel his entire body tense underneath her touch, coiled muscles ready to spring. Really, this hunk backed down to Finn and his friends?

John easily shrugs her off and continues walking out the door. "Nothing." And then he's gone from sight.

**John Smith**

The journey through the crowds of high school students is an arduous task after having spent an hour curled up in agony. Even now, his hands throb painfully from where they're shoved deep in his pockets. He sways unevenly, but he can't use his hands to balance. People shoot him assessing looks, leering or concerned. He tries to ignore the hundreds of eyes boring into his back. The sounds of dozens of lockers slamming and dozens of idle conversations echoing through the halls can't drown out the hundreds of quiet murmurs swirling around him, about him.

_Can you believe it? He's going after Quinn._

_You're not serious. He picked the wrong girl to mess with._

_He picked the wrong _guy_ to mess with. Finn crushed him._

_I heard he ran away before it even started._

Somebody taps his elbow anxiously. A soft voice speaks behind him. He ignores it in favor of keeping himself upright. He feels like he's walking through molasses; his feet are so heavy and his legs so tired from his seizure in the darkroom.

A large body in a letterman jacket runs into his shoulder roughly, and, without use of his hands, John would have toppled to the ground had not two hands suddenly supported him. He turns to find two Asians staring at him in concern. He recognizes the taller, wiry one as the one who had approached him in the commons; the much shorter onegirl, he hasn't seen before. Both are wearing large glasses and are talking at him. John blinks slowly, blood pounding in his ears with an undertone of continuous, whispering gossip. He can't hear anything else, but he understands the look of slight panic that passes between the two Asians. Willing his tongue to move, John mutters, "Thanks. I'm just… feeling a little sick. I'm going home."

The tiny Asian girl gives an uncertain smile and says something else. A slight foreign accent tinges her voice, but that's all John hears before he nods curtly and heads for the door again, his hands still shoved deep in his pockets.

John finally manages to reach the doors. He's sweating and panting and his vision is blurring, but even he can see that the doors have handles. He's got to pull them. He takes a quick peek in his pockets; his hands are still beaming brightly.

The tall Asian guy is behind him again, and he pulls the door open so John can step through. The sunlight is harsh in John's eyes, but he sees Henri's truck sitting fifty feet away. The journey seems much shorter now that he isn't navigating seas of students, and, when Henri pushes the passenger door open, John finally collapses in the seat.

Henri pulls out of his parking spot. John hunches over, trying to catch his breath. When Henri casually rolls down the windows as soon as they're driving through residential streets, John finally pulls his hands out of his pockets, exposing them to the cool breeze. The burning pain has weakened, and the feeling of wind over his skin is enough to calm his nerves. His left hand has dimmed to a weak glow, a light pink through his calloused palms. On the other hand, the beam of blue light is sharpening to a more intense beam, but the feeling is cooler, not like fire.

Henri's worried voice cuts through their brief silence. "Did anybody see your hands?"

John looks at his guardian. They've just moved, and John's reluctant to abruptly pack up and leave after they've just settled in. Henri looks exhausted; he's only had about four hours of sleep over the past 48 hours, what with driving cross country, moving in, driving John to school, and tidying up the house. "No."

Henri's tone is skeptical. "You've only been in school for three hours. Your first Legacy emerges, you left your bag in a classroom getting out in a hurry, and you disappeared for third period. That's not exactly blending in."

"It's not enough to justify moving away. Besides, I told people I was sick." Well, he'd told the two Asians, at least.

They drive in silence for a while. John finally sneaks a glance at Henri to check if he's convinced or not. Henri is smiling, and he leans over to clap a hand to John's knee, his eyes never leaving the road. "It's been a long wait for your powers to arrive. The Lorien Legacy."

John grins back in return. "So, what's this? Am I eventually going to be able to shoot energy blasts from my hands or something?"

"Nope, you've got Lumen. Your grandfather had the ability as well."

Immediately, the weathered smile lines of his grandparents jump to John's mind. On Lorien, grandparents retired when their children married and produced the next generation. As their new occupation, the elders raised the grandchildren while the adults continued to hone their powers (in the case of the Garde) or run society (for the Cêpan). "And Lumen does…?"

Henri pulls onto the road leading out of town. Only then does he allow his eyes to leave the straight road, keeping one hand steady on the wheel. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. "Hold out your hand."

John does so cautiously, but he immediately yanks it back when Henri brings the lighter flame towards him. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," John yelps. "You never said anything about being fireproof."

"Oh yeah, you're now fire and heat resistant," Henri remarks offhandedly, glancing back at the road before meeting John's eyes again. "Trust me. Just hold out your hand. Close your eyes if you need to."

After enduring an hour of searing pain in the palms of his hands, John's not too terribly anxious to experience the real thing, but he extends his left middle finger towards his guardian. Henri replies with a sarcastic, "Ha ha," and then sticks the flame directly underneath John's palm. John winces, but the pain is forthcoming. He feels nothing. His hands are still flickering with faint white light, but the yellow flame playing across the bottom of his palm has no effect on his skin.

John is in the middle of marveling at this new development when Henri turns off the main road onto the long gravel driveway that loops through some trees before coming upon their deserted house. The change in direction causes the lighter flame to flicker and lick against John's wrist, and he yanks his hand back as a sudden increase in heat makes him aware that only his hands are resistant. He curses and Henri puts out the flame. "Sorry," Henri apologizes. "Your hands kickstart themselves automatically when you come of age, but we'll have to train the rest of your body."

John inspects his wrist; the skin is unmarred. His resistance to flame seems to spread farther than his resistance to heat. A smile slowly stretches across his face as he realizes he's finally got a fighting chance. After over a decade of running, he's got something to work with. "So eventually, I'll never get burned again?"

"Eventually, yes."

"That's pretty cool," John laughs, bringing his hands in front of his face and admiring the dim lights. "Now, what about these lights?" He thinks back to his grandfather; large, tanned hands chasing him around the yard playfully when he refused to go inside and eat dinner. "They _do_ turn off, right? I don't ever remember Grandpa's hands glowing."

Henri glances over as they finally pull in front of the rundown house. "In time, you'll learn to control them, turn them on and off at will. For now, you should probably just try to stay calm and stay under the radar. Your powers are activated by abrupt emotional imbalances, and they keep running with your adrenaline. They'll probably turn off when you get a good night's rest and your mind forgets they're on."

As he approaches their new house, John suddenly remembers the one constant thing that's always been with them, no matter which state or house or school: the intricately carved box the size of a shoebox that Henri's always lugged around the country, ever since John can remember. "So… now that I have my first Legacy," he proposes as they get out of the truck, "Do we get to open The Chest?"

"The Loric Chest? Not now," Henri replies. "Let's wait under you get those hands back under control." He claps John on the back as they step together into the house. "Great first day of school, huh?"

John slips his hands in his pocket, grinning. "No kidding."

**Finn Hudson**

Finn snaps awake as the final bells rings. Mr. Valdez continues to write a final algebra equation on the board even as people begin packing up and leaving. Finn can't remember what imaginary numbers are, so he simply joins the stream of students headed to the lockers as he checks his watch. If he hurries, he'll have enough time to slip to the cafeteria and grab a snack before Glee Club.

People part before him as he makes his way down the hall; light whispers trail behind him in his wake, quiet comments on his treatment onf the guy who just tried to hit on his girlfriend.

Well, maybe not his girlfriend as of right now. Before the whole incident last year, they'd been the power couple of the school. She'd broken up with him every so often before, when they got stuck in a rut and no chemistry happened beyond that initial passion. Her bBreaking up with him motivated him to work harder to get her back. It was almost like a game, and his heart always swelled in victory when she came back to him, pledging that he was the only one she'd ever want and that nobody else in McKinley made her feel the way he did. Then'll everything went back to how it used to be; only this time,but every time their relationship even grew stronger because he fought that much harder for it.

So that's how he sees it now; Quinn is simply playing hard-to-get again. But this time, he'll go above and beyond to win her back. Eventually, she'll see how devoted he is to her and remember, and they'll inevitably get back together again.

Finn walks into the cafeteria at the same time Kurt, Tina, and Mercedes, are just leaving. The three looks the three friends give him range from a happy greeting from Kurt, to slight disapproval from Tina, to downright murder from Mercedes. He ignores the black diva and replies to Kurt's greeting. "Hey man," he grins absentmindedly. His thoughts are still on Quinn and John. John had definitely been checking her out yesterday, and Finn was just eliminating competition.

Kurt waves a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Finn? Has your mom had any offers on the house?"

Finn shakes his head. "Um, no, not yet. I'm not sure we'll be able…" His mind drifts off as he reflects on the slight awkwardness he still feels around his soon-to-be stepbrother, who'd crushed on him majorly last year. Kurt is over him by now, but the outspoken gay he still doesn't hesitate on to pompously giveing Finn his opinion on the whole Quinn debacle, declaring his _this-is-how-girls-think-so-stop-messing-around-with-her-and-try-approaching-it-this-way_ theory.

Finn sees that Tina has that slightly pitying look on her face that many people wear when he drifts off in thought in the middle of his sentences. Before he can pick up the slack, though, the Asian pulls her perfectly straightened hair out of her face, finishes off the last of her cinnamon roll, and pulls anxiously at Kurt's sleeve. "Hey, we're going to be late for Glee," she says as she ushers Mercedes out the door. "See you soon, Finn."

Mercedes shoots a furious glance at Finn as she allows Tina to drag her away. Quinn does have other friends after all, and not all of them approve of his methods.

Ten minutes later, Finn shows up late to Glee. Everybody's already sitting down and looking attentively to at Mr. Schue, who's writing on the whiteboard in big letters. Finn notices a couple new presences in the choir room: in addition to Luke, Kyle, Marissa, and Josh on the lead, bass, acoustic, and drums, Tyson and some of the audio-visual club members are present with their laptops and lot of sound equipment.

Mr. Schue turns around as Finn takes his customary seat next to Quinn. She doesn't even glance his way this time, focusing on their Spanish teacher and the big, black letters on the board behind him.

MOVING FORWARD.

**Kurt Hummel**

Kurt glances immediately at his almost step-brother, Finn, searching his face for a reaction. Of course, Finn doesn't have one; he doesn't quite get it yet. Kurt isn't surprised at all; that boy still refuses to acknowledge that white shoes don't go with a dark shirt, or that polo shirts should not exceed three colors. But, of course, Finn only has one pair of shoes, and he throws on whatever is lying on the floor when he rolls out of bed. Every morning, by the time Kurt goes through morning yoga, coordinates his outfit, carefully sculpts his hair, and finishes breakfast, Finn is just stumbling down the stairs bleary eyed, with a random assortment of clothes haphazardly thrown on. Now that Kurt lives with the bumbling jock, he can't see how he ever had such a huge crush on him.

He notices that Quinn, on the other hand, is suddenly very interested in the topic that Mr. Schue is expounding upon.

"When we need a charge or a pick-me-up, a lot of us turn to music and song to find the motivation to keep us moving," Mr. Schue is saying. "When life gets down on you, isn't there ever a song in your heart that you want to communicate with the world?"

Several heads bob in agreement. Kurt finds himself nodding as well. He feels like he can express himself so much more eloquently through melody than through diary entries; Glee club gave him that outlet last year, and he feels that he's matured since then.

"Songs can express emotions and feelings like no other medium," Schuester continues along Kurt's train of thought. "They provide the needed motivation and inspiration to spark the fire inside you when it's been extinguished. This week's assignment: find a song that expresses how you keep yourself constantly moving forward. No angsty stuff here! Just—"

"Mr. Schuester?" Sunshine's hand is already in the air. Of course she's already got a million songs lined up in her head. Kurt smirks upon recalling her past song choices. Since Sunshine just recently moved from the Philippines, much of her musical knowledge is mainly international pop music.

Sunshine walks up to the front of the room, her ridiculously large glasses perched adorably on her nose. She looks so tiny standing next to the lanky lead guitarist, Luke. When she addresses Tyson, Kurt almost laughs at the strong blush creeping up Tyson's hard neckline as he avoids eye contact with Sunshine. He can't even talk to the least intimidating girl in the school, so another girl, Ashley, takes Sunshine's request.

_By the way,_ Kurt thinks, _What are they doing here?_

The rest of the Glee club seems to be on the same wavelength, as Artie asks, "Mr. Schue? What's the A.V. club doing in here?"

Tyson snaps out of his daze to address Artie. "We're adding more auto-tune and electronica to your already hyped-up soundtrack."

Everybody takes this into account and no protest is made.

Sunshine jumps onto the black piano and composes herself. Mr. Schue dims the lights while one of the A.V. club members, Ashley, focuses a soft light on the small Asian. Everybody focuses in on Sunshine when her characteristically rich, strong voice carries throughout the room.

"_There's a hero,/ if you look inside your heart,/ You don't have to be afraid of what you are."_

Kurt allows the ghost of a smile to reach his lips. Sunshine Corazon can make anybody sound good; she simply takes artists' words and makes them her own, leaving her own mark that articulates exactly what inside of her. Kurt decides that's what makes Sunshine so powerful—not only her amazing musical talent, but her ability to carry the songs.

"_And then a hero comes along/ with the strength to carry on/ and you cast your fears aside/ and you know you can survive./ So when you feel like hope is gone,/ look inside you and be strong/ and you'll finally see the truth:/ that a hero lies in you."_

This being Glee, by the end of the song, the entire audience has joined Sunshine as accompaniment. Too predictable, but even Kurt's playing along. While humming along to the melody he hasn't heard before, Kurt doesn't miss the glance that passes between Quinn and Finn, and his heart sinks as Finn once again remains oblivious to the message Quinn is trying to send him: she doesn't want a relationship, especially after what she's been through.

Finn remains the typical stoic male, keeping his problems to himself, and he refuses to talk with Kurt about what's going on in his noggin. However, from what Kurt can garner, Finn thinks that Quinn will come back if he tries hard enough; so her not coming back to him is not because she has personal problems that she needs to overcome, but because he's not trying hard enough.

Kurt, despite being in close contact with Mercedes and constantly being subjected to her rants on Finn's myriad of problems and faulty methods of going about things, still supports his future stepbrother. He knows it's an impossible cause, but, since Finn won't listen to _Back off_ or _She's damaged and you got to step back and let her fix herself_, Kurt just suggests other ways to get her back.

The clock reaches four o'clock before he knows it. Brittany and Santana stalk out the door, already in their Cheerio uniforms and ready for a grueling two hours of acrobatics with Sue Sylvester. Finn and Puck pick up their stuff to go to football practice, but Finn stops next to Luke and Tyson on his way out and gives them his song. Quinn walks out of the room briskly as Lauren Zizes heads to the gym for wrestling. Tina, Artie, and Sunshine agree to walk home together, Tina pushing her boyfriend along. Kurt approaches Mercedes. "Hello there, lovely," he beams, hugging his curvaceous best friend. "Are we still doing dinner tonight?"

Mercedes holds onto him a little longer than necessary, but Kurt doesn't mind. "Yes," she flashes a bright smile. "Quinn will be there as well."

Kurt rolls his eyes as he hooks his arm into Mercedes. "Oh great, another Finn bitchfest," he groans. "Aand I say that as lovingly as possible, but seriously, can't we ever talk about _Spring Awakening_ without you going, _Speaking of the musical number Guilty Ones, Finn—_"

Together, they stroll out, leaving Mr. Schue and Mike alone in the choir room. Kurt briefly wonders why Mike doesn't ever make an effort to connect with the rest of the group. He is the best dancer out of all the guys, but he doesn't ever talk.

Mercedes slaps him playfully upside the head as they walk outside into the parking lot. "Shut it. You're our best resource into that monster's inner workings. Now are you going to ride home with me or walk?"

**Quinn Fabray**

They're sitting in Mercedes' bedroom in dim light. Broadway posters and ballooned images of Patti LuPone and Spice Girls scream at them from the wooden walls. Makeup and clothes are scattered everywhere, and in the chaos of it all, Kurt lies sprawled on the bed, squeezed between Quinn and Mercedes.

" —no, I swear to God that that is exactly what Sunshine said. She couldn't even down two wine coolers before she was bouncing off the walls and yelling random stuff." Mercedes cackles unabashedly and Kurt curls into her body, shaking with laughter.

Quinn chuckles, propping herself on her elbows and observing her friends. They quiet for a moment, and there's a beat before Mercedes notices Quinn staring at them and nudges her through Kurt's body. "What's up, pretty lady?"

Quinn breaks eye contact as she ducks her head briefly. "Nothing," she says, instead of _I love you guys, _or _when I get out of this two-bit town, I'm going to miss you guys terribly_, or, with even deeper feeling, _You two are the only people in the world whom I can trust._

Kurt rolls onto his stomach to look at Quinn shrewdly. "Nuh uh, I know that look, Quinn. Spit it out. Even if it's about Finn." He reaches backward and pushes Mercedes back lightly, as if to communicate, _Keep your mouth closed and let her speak_.

"It's not Finn," she says automatically. "Even if he's a dick. I'm just not ready for a relationship." She looks down, the back up to hold Mercedes' gaze. "My friends are enough for me."

Mercedes melts. "Aww, come here," she fusses, scooping Kurt up in between them in a group hug. Kurt gasps dramatically as both girls weigh down on him, but they purposely prolong their time on top of him till he finally squeaks and scrabbles at their shoulders with his manicured fingernails until they roll off.

They lie there panting for a long moment, just content to listen to each other breathing. Quinn takes up her camera lying on Mercedes' bedside table and positions the camera. Kurt begins to compose his face into a bright smile, but Quinn lowers her camera and shakes her head. "Just relax," she instructs. "You had it perfect before: natural, relaxed. I want to preserve that."

Kurt complies, closing his eyes and settling back with Mercedes' arm still draped across his chest. Quinn takes in Mercedes' black hair splayed across her wide back and winding down the arm thrown across Kurt. In return, Kurt has his arm wrapped around the small of her back. One jean-clad, propped-up leg hides Mercedes' lower body. The table lamp casts soft light on Kurt's delicate face, and behind him, Mercedes faces away. The position is platonically intimate; not romantic, but simply as if two friends had fallen asleep next to each other.

_Click._

* * *

**Side Flings, Homages, and Downright Rip-offs: **

_Sunshine Corazon's song  
_"Hero" by Mariah Carey

"_Speaking of the fantastic musical number Guilty Ones, Finn…"  
_- Lea Michele and Jonathan Groff played the lead roles in the Broadway musical, _Spring Awakening_.


	4. Powerful and Dangerous

_Day Two (Wednesday) – Lima, Ohio_

**John Smith**

His eyes flutter open. There isn't a lot of light coming through his window; it's a cloudy day, but it's well past dawn. His alarm clock didn't ring because he didn't turn it on last night.

It's 8:15am. School starts in fifteen minutes.

He snaps out of bed and runs to the bathroom, but before he reaches the door, he remembers his hands and immediately brings his hands up to his face. They're regular again, lightless skin in the dimness of the room.

Five minutes later, he's stumbling down the stairs, haphazardly dressed. "Henri?" he calls, searching around the ground floor. He finds Henri sitting in the windowless study. All four of his computer monitors are set up and running. The temperature rises almost five degrees when John steps into the room. "Henri? Why didn't you wake me up?"

Henri doesn't even look around; he just picks up his coffee and takes a sip. "Sorry, I lost track of time. The internet was installed two hours ago and I haven't checked since Florida."

_He hasn't slept since Florida either_, John adds mentally, excusing his guardian. Instead, his eyes skim over the monitors. One is always set on international news, scanning reports on suspicious activity: possible evidence of other Loriens like them on other continents, or of the Mogodorians chasing them. Another scans the internet, deleting any online copies of Henri's or John's faces or evidence of their residence in a particular place. In other words, Daniel Jones ceased to exist the moment they left Florida four days ago. Any electronic records accessible via the World Wide Web were corrupted once Henri broke through to them.

"How are your hands?" Henri asks.

"Off. Can I go to school today?"

"You're sick," Henri reminds him dryly. "Let's give it a day."

"But it's my first day of school! I can't just show up and then disappear…" Henri levels a derisive look at him, but John finishes his statement, "…for a couple days before coming back." His thoughts drift to Quinn and Finn. Seriously, what would the school think of him, seeing as he picked a fight, ran away, and mysteriously fell ill?

The world's biggest wimp, probably.

Henri shakes his head and takes another sip. "I wanted to open the Loric Chest and start your training today, but if you'd rather…"

"Hey, hey, hey, let's not jump to conclusions here," John responds hastily. Screw Finn; the (unopened) Loric Chest has been with them longer than McKinley High has been. "I like school just as much as the next guy, but let's see this." He jumps up and runs upstairs to where he saw Henri hide the Chest: in a hidden compartment beneath the grandfather clock in the master bedroom.

John returns to the study room with the Chest in hand and sits on the two-person couch. It's the size of a large shoebox and doesn't appear to have any seams or cracks. It doesn't have a latch or a handle either, with only some strange designs on the surface. He's tried to crack open the box many times before, but nothing's ever worked; for all he knows, it could just be a solid block of metal—except it's too light, and, if he shakes the Chest hard enough, he can hear loose objects shifting inside.

Henri rises from his computers and takes the Chest from John, jerking his head in the direction of the living room. "Close the windows," he instructs, placing the Chest on the coffee table and looking out the front door. By the time he's locked it and walks back, all the window blinds are down and John's sitting on a dusty couch.

"Come on," John cajoles. "What's inside?"

"Your Inheritance."

"And what's that?"

"It's what's given to every Garde—that's you—at birth, to be used by his or her Keeper—that's me—when the Garde's powers are activated. The box can only be opened after your first Legacy manifests, and it can only be opened by both of us. Unless I die. Then you could open it by yourself."

"Let's hope that doesn't ever happen. Come on, how do you open the box?"

Henri motions towards the intricately carved surface. "Put your hand on the surface patterns."

John complies. This time, instead of a cool surface, the ridges of the patterns warm up against his palm. In response, his lights automatically flicker on, reacting with the surface to make the raised patterns luminous in the pre-dawn room. When Henri puts his hand on top of John's, however, the light blue glow fades, and a very audible click resounds in the room.

"Wow. That's awesome," John breathes.

"It's protected by a Loric charm, just like you are. You could run this thing over with a steamroller and it wouldn't even be dented."

John moves forward to grab the box, but Henri pushes him back suddenly. "Wait," he says, his voice suddenly steely. "There are some things in here you aren't ready to see yet."

John opens and closes his mouth to protest, but the gravity apparent in Henri's eyes prompts him to sit back on the couch and look in the opposite direction. When a soft pop indicates that Henri has put the lid back on the Chest, John turns back around.

Henri is holding a gray rock about six inches long, three inches thick, and pointed at both ends. "What is that?" John inquires.

In response, Henri simply hands it over. John accepts the rock gingerly. The moment it comes to rest in both of his palms, his palms suddenly burst into pure white light, beaming into his eyes. He doesn't even flinch; they're his own lights, and his eyes automatically adjust to the sudden change. Eventually they dim to a point where he can see Henri and the faint rays of sunlight peeking in through the window blinds.

The rock in his hands is clear now—a crystal, with a cloudy substance roiling inside. The crystal is warm against his palms and the Loric pendant he wears around his neck—the one containing the charm that protects the other Loriens—also heats up. John feels a rush of exhilaration; he's waited his entire life to stop running and hiding. He's been waiting for his life to start, and this time in one continuous sequence instead of a bunch of chopped up snapshots of a thousand different cities and states. He's waited for an opportunity to stand up for himself, just like he did yesterday against Finn.

"What is it doing?" he asks.

"It's a Loric crystal. It speeds up the process of kickstarting your Legacies. Each Legacy matures with constant practice, but this is the foundation that your growth is built on." Henri smiles. "Shall we start?"

John nods. "Hell yes."

**Mike Chang**

John doesn't show up to school. He doesn't sit next to Mike during Astronomy either; he's not anywhere. Mike casually moves his backpack back onto the extra spot, shielding his magazine behind it so that Mrs. Burton can't catch him as easily. Back to the way things were before.

Other than him, Mike observes that only two other people notice John's absence. Finn first, who looks around before facing up front again. Quinn follows Finn's gaze to the back of the room afterwards. The two meet gazes halfway and hold it for a little longer than necessary, as if they're having a staring competition. Quinn breaks the match by continuing to swivel her head until she's looking at the empty seat. Then she faces forward again.

Mike's glasses once again prevent him from seeing the finer details of both Finn and Quinn's faces, but he hears the smug satisfaction in the jock's reply when Principal Figgins requests his presence; reporters from the local newspaper are ready to interview him.

Mike returns to his magazine.

**John Smith**

"Just let your mind drift, John."

He lies spread-eagle on the coffee table. Henri is pushing the crystal into his chest gently.

"Close your eyes and relax."

He stops and wipes his mind clean. The crystal is all hard edges against his sternum, but within seconds it's the only thing he can feel. His mind is falling away from his body, and, with a flash of light, he's suddenly soaring over treetops. He's flying and a warm wind rustles through his clothes. The trees thin into a flat, green plain where strange, gentle creatures graze and run in large herds. Sunlight reflects off a perfectly flat body of water in front of him, and John looks up. The sky is a deep shade of blue, without any traces of clouds; the sun is also twice as large as the one on Earth. From so far up here in the sky, John can see the curvature of the planet, a planet that is ten times smaller than Earth.

His planet. Lorien in its prime. He knows it looks nothing like this now, so this must be a rather vivid memory. Is this his memory and it's just been hidden deep within him, like his Legacies? Or has this been induced by the crystal?

The memory suddenly transitions to a gigantic city at night. From his position in the air, John can see a boundless metropolis sprawling beneath him. Multitudes of lights powered by crystals twinkle in the streets and houses below, and a thousand more stars shimmer above him in the black sky. Three moons, three different sizes, hang at different angles from the horizon. But these all dim in the brilliant fireworks exploding in the sky, each blazing particle curving lazily in midair to form rough images of simple shapes—hearts, boxes within boxes, stars, multicolored concentric spheres, flowers with petals blooming before his eyes. The technology on this world is so much more advanced, almost foreign to him. He's lived on Earth since he was four, and his memories of his home planet are mere fuzzy images. But he _does_ remember this night. A night he can't ever change.

A voice enters his consciousness. "The Mogodorians hoped to murder most of you before you came of age. Nine Loriens, children of the Garde, who escaped to Earth. The amulet you wear around your neck only allows you to be killed in a set order. You are Number Four. Number One, Two, and Three died because they panicked. We've got to keep our wits about us and be vigilant. They know that it'll only get harder as each of you develops your Legacies, and when each of your main Legacies manifest, we'll fight back. War will be waged. We will take our revenge, because they took our world from us."

Something explodes behind John's point of view. He whirls around. It's not a sparkling firework; it's one billowing cloud of pure fire, roaring up to consume an entire building. He remembers this. The explosions. He's had these nightmares since he can remember, but this experience is different. He can see and hear and taste everything that's going on around him. Still—nightmare or crystal-induced memory —one thing remains the same: this is just a replay of history. He can't do anything to alter it.

Suddenly, ships are descending around John's virtual image, each dropping payloads of bombs. The magnificent backdrop of stars are drowned out by blood red smoke as explosion after explosion blossoms in the city beneath him. Screams carry on the hot wind. The ships make contact with the ground, and dozens of Mogodorian soldiers pour out into the public square. Large cargo ships land next, unleashing gigantic beasts which are all straining muscle and teeth, spines and claws, fifty feet tall and hungry for blood. Children and adults alike fall. The Garde put their powers on display—elemental manipulation, telekinesis, super speed, shimmering force fields, energy constructs. But the Mogodorians couldn't have chosen a better time to attack—in the middle of a national holiday, when everybody is out in the streets celebrating. Even the children.

"We got careless as our prosperity grew." John finally recognizes the narrator's voice as Henri's. It resounds in his head, melting with his thoughts. "We let our guard down and almost lost the entire planet as a result. The Garde failed because they put the children over themselves. So many more people died as the number of Garde dwindled. We were lucky enough to get anybody off the planet, much less nine young children of the Garde who might live and somebody continue the fight and keep our race alive."

In the midst of the city below, a sudden flash of blue contrasts with the orange smolder everywhere. A small ship launches straight into the air, leaving behind a faint blue trail. It rockets past him, and John watches it until it's just another brilliant speck among the stars. He feels a strange sense of familiarity, and John suddenly realizes that he's on that ship. His four year old self. And Henri as well. And seventeen other Loriens. Out of the thousands burning beneath them.

John alights on the ground. Carnage is everywhere. Useless slaughter. Garde and Cêpan, adults and defenseless children, all dead. A soldier slashes his sword, piercing a woman standing in front of two children. She falls to the ground, her long chestnut hair falling around her face. Before she succumbs, she pours everything she has into tearing the soldier apart with telekinesis. The children are frozen in terror, and they don't even see a squat, bulldog-like creature pounding its way towards them.

John sprints forward, diving towards the two children. They both look completely different; not siblings, maybe friends. Their eyes are wide open in horror; their fronts are splattered with blood. John tries to knock them out of the way, but he simply passes through them. He hears the sudden crunch of soft bodies as a large mass lands behind him. Screams pierce the air as the monster just continues on, extinguishing more lives. Dust and burnt blood and smoke, that's all John tastes. He sees red. Rage courses through his veins like acid, burning in his eyes. How could the Mogodorians do this? How could their hearts be so indifferent to senseless slaughter?

Henri starts speaking again, but he stops just as suddenly. Silence on his Cêpan's part causes the memory to fuzz around the edges a bit. John begins to detach himself from the scene, drifting back into his own body again. His eyes still burn. They're wet. Senses gradually return to him, but he still remembers the ghosts of his dream senses: ash on his lips, screams ringing in his ears. He wipes the tears away from his eyes with the back of his hand.

There's a scratch on the door, then a low moan. That brings him fully back to the present, and he's instantly on his toes.

"Somebody's at the door," Henri tells John cautiously. "Hide behind the couch."

"Why?"

"Because I said so. If I yell run or scream incoherently, run like hell. Now get behind the couch."

John pales at the humorless joke but complies as Henri leaves the living room, through the kitchen and around to the front door.

John sits in the silent darkness for a moment. Then Henri unlocks and opens the door.

Nothing.

No screaming. Instead, a whine, then a soft padding sound when something trots in.

There's a smile in Henri's voice. "Well, look who we have here."

John rises from his hiding place just as a dog saunters in from the kitchen. Stupidly, he asks, "What are you doing here?"

"You know him?" Henri asks as he shuts the front door and locks it.

"No, I just saw him at school," John replies, petting the dog. Its fur is matted and greasy, but its eyes are soft and emit some sort of understanding. The worn collar around its neck reads _Bernie Kosar._

"Bernie Kosar," John reads, and the dog's tail thumps. "That's your name, eh, boy?" He looks up at Henri. "I don't think he belongs to anyone, and he's hungry." Somehow, he can sense that the dog really wants food. "Can we keep him?"

Henri looks doubtful, but he nods his head anyways. "Sure. But you're cleaning up after him."

John grins, but the vivid images start filtering back. He pets the dog softly as he whispers, "I saw what happened. At least the beginning of the attack."

Henri's face quickly turns somber. "I thought you might. There's a lot of Lorien in that crystal."

Somebody's stomach growls. Henri and John look at the dog, which looks back innocently.

The conversation transitions to the kitchen, where Henri sticks a chicken breast in the microwave. John sits on the floor while Bernie Kosar sits patiently in front of the microwave. Henri turns when John asks, "So, what really happened? What's the whole story?"

Henri blinks a little too long. He lets out a little huff. "The planets Lorien and Mogodore have always used the life energy of their planet to advance—"

John holds up a hand to stop Henri. "…Are you saying the planet's… alive? Like it's a separate entity?"

Henri nods and continues. "Every system has a flow of life streaming through it that sustains the smaller organisms living on it. Thus the health of the inhabitants of the planet is a good indicator of the planet's condition. Mogodore was a harsh, almost uninhabitable planet to start off with, and the first intelligent life that evolved on the planet immediately took advantage of the planet's resources without a thought to conservation. Within a couple thousand years, the life energy of the planet was spiraling rapidly—in other words, the planet was dying."

The microwave beeps, and Henri pulls out the chicken. Bernie Kosar eyes Henri woefully as Henri moves from the kitchen to the table, but Henri sits down at the table first and looks John in the eye.

"The Mogodorians ignored the signs their planet was sending them and continued to use their world without giving something back. In fact, they even developed a method to extract life force directly from the planet to fuel their advancement. It wasn't until later, until it was blatantly obvious, that they realized that the planet dying was a direct cause of their actions. The sparse vegetation wilted first and then the herbivores, and the rest of the food chain started to follow. The climate changed, fresh water ran out. The Mogodorians had to restore the life energy somehow, or find another power source."

"Lorien," John mumbles. "The closest life-sustaining planet to Mogodore."

Henri nods as he finally lowers the plate of chicken strips to the floor. Bernie Kosar dives in hungrily, as if he hasn't eaten for days. "Yes. They razed the surface first, killing life there first so that the life force would flow back into the planet. Then, when it had all accumulated there, they drained the planet within a week, using huge machines the size of spaceships to absorb Lorien's life energy directly from the core of the planet itself."

Both sit in silence for a while. The only noise is of Bernie Kosar chomping down on the chicken.

"There are many Mogodorians here on Earth," Henri begins suddenly. "I don't actually know where they are, but I can sense them. I think there are too many on Earth to just capture the six of you remaining Garde."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Mogodore was twice as big as Lorien, but Earth is five times as large as Mogodore. Earth has the better advantage because of its colossal side. The Mogodorians were able to defeat us so easily because they knew so much about our culture, our holidays, our people, and our world. We didn't have any information on them, and didn't have anything to protect us other than the Garde. That's how we were defeated so easily; Mogodorians are brilliant strategists when it comes to war."

Bernie finishes his plate and looks up at John expectantly. John goes to the freezer and pulls out another frozen chicken breast as Henri continues his theory.

"Something went wrong when they injected Lorien's life force into Mogodore's; it was like a faulty blood transfusion, and Mogodore mostly rejected the other planet's life force. Some of its life was restored—the water cycle started again when vegetation grew back in some places—but the planet is still deteriorating and the Mogodorians know it." Henri pauses as the hum of the microwave comes on again. "I don't think the Mogodorians are interested in just sapping out Earth's life force and resources this time."

"What?" John looks up at Henri, still confused.

"Mogodore is going to splinter apart with the next hundred years. The inside of it is a scrubbed shell, still rejecting Lorien's life force violently in some places through earthquakes that spill out pulsing white light, light that overwhelms any other life source it comes in contact with. The life force of the planet contains the knowledge of the planet and of all the inhabitants that have ever lived. There's even a little bit of Lorien in the Loric crystal we have. But Mogodore couldn't sustain itself off the foreign life energy of another planet, and now the Mogodorians know they can't take that route. They're not going to drain Earth of its resources. They're going to kill everything on it first, then make Earth their permanent home."

_Day Three (Thursday) - Lima, Ohio_

**Finn Hudson**

Finn's just a little nervous. The last time he'd tried singing his feelings to the one he loved, it hadn't gone over so well. Namely, it had gotten her kicked out of her house and into his.

So maybe he's really nervous. But it's too late now: Luke and Marissa have practiced his song, Tyson's got the track ready, Mr. Schue has called him up, and everybody is staring intently at him. Except the one person he's singing to.

Quinn Fabray.

Luke starts the first chord.

"_If you wake up and don't want to smile;/ If it take just a little while/ open your eyes and look at the day,/ you'll see things in a different way._"

God, she's so beautiful, even when she's purposely ignoring him. Out of everybody in the room—petite Sunshine, boisterous Mercedes, smoldering Santana, oblivious Brittany, quiet Tina, badass Lauren—all Finn can see is beautiful Quinn, sitting right in front of him but looking at the ground.

"_Don't stop thinking about tomorrow./ Don't stop, it'll soon be here./ It'll be better than before;/ Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone."_

A blush is rising in Quinn's cheeks. Finn takes this as a good sign.

"_All I want is to see you smile/ if it takes just a little while./ I know you don't believe that it's true/ I never meant any harm to you."_

If there was any doubt before, it's gone now; Quinn is definitely blushing. But not of embarrassment; her head snaps up to look at him, and the look she shoots him is derisive. Finn almost trips over his words, but the background of his friends, including Puck, Lauren, and Kurt cheerily singing along, helps him get back on track.

When he plops back down into his seat next to Mike, Finn hardly hears Mr. Schue congratulating his song choice. He doesn't even hear Artie's song; he's so intent on gauging Quinn for a reaction. Because Tina is between him and Quinn, however, he briefly notes that Tina does not seem to be happy with Artie's song choice.

The bell rings, and Quinn is the first one out of her chair. Finn quickly grabs his backpack and sprints after her. It's almost like she's running away, she's walking so fast. But Finn runs faster, and he corners her next to the drinking fountain in the history wing.

"Quinn!" he yells, pulling on her shoulder. He doesn't think much of it, but the grab throws her off balance so that she stumbles into the wall of lockers, causing a large bang. "Oh my god, Quinn, I'm so—"

"Please," she growls, still slumped against the lockers. "Leave me alone." Her voice is all ice, the crystalline cutting edge he'd heard last year. Back then, though, it had never been directed at him.

"Quinn, just listen to me," Finn pleads, stepping into her line of vision. She looks down at the ground, and her blonde curls drop in front of her face. It reminds Finn of what Tina used to do in middle school when she wanted to shut herself off from the world. "I meant what I sang back there."

"Did you?" is her scathing reply. "When I was pregnant, you never meant to hurt me by kicking me out of your house?"

Indignant dissent bubbles up his throat, but he swallows it down; even he knows it would do nothing to help the situation. Still, the injury leaks into his voice. "It hurt me so much whenever I… every time I saw the baby, I saw Puck and I wanted to—" He holds himself back again, breathing hard. "The thing is, I never blamed you. I know you. I still see you for who you are inside."

"So who am I?" she whispers hoarsely, throwing her blonde hair back. There is almost a feral look in her eyes, wild and uncontrolled. "Tell me who I am. You think you know me so well? You think you can fix this?"

Finn sees Mercedes out of the corner of his eye. He also sees Kurt holding her back. He doesn't have much time left. "Quinn," he says softly, as if talking to a spooked animal. "You're stronger than you think you are. You're independent and you fight for yourself. I know that." He tries to put comforting hands on her shoulders, but she overreacts, shoving his arms away violently and stepping backwards, dragging her messenger bag along.

"You don't know me," she states dully, each word punctuated by a step. "I cheated; I lied; I led you on. I told you the baby was yours because I needed somebody else. That was my fault, not Puck's." She stops ten feet away, sliding her messenger bag back onto her shoulder. She says the next words in cool detachment. "But when I finally allowed myself to open up and trust you, you threw me out."

Finn closes his eyes. He does remember the night he found out.

_He's just holding her, lying down on her bed in the guest room. His arms are wrapped around her and his large hands are splayed on her stomach. On their baby. He can feel her moving. He doesn't even know if it's a boy or girl, but he's already named her Drizzle. Soft, like the rain. Like Quinn's skin._

_Quinn turns over with difficulty and looks into his eyes. God, her eyes are so beautiful—a light brown, with so much warmth and intensity behind them. He leans in and kisses her fully, one hand brushing her cheek and the other still on her stomach. The tie that binds them together. Forever._

_She breaks the kiss. There's something different in her eyes this time. Her voice cracks when she murmurs, "I love you, Finn."_

Now that he thinks about it now, that was the first time she'd said that. She's given him a lot of descriptive proclamations of devotion, like _You're the only one for me_ and _You make me feel like I'm flying_, but, lying on her bed right after dinner, kissing in the dark, she had finally let herself love somebody. Not her viciously conservative father, who'd chosen his morals over his daughter, or her prim, weak-willed mother, who only stood by as Quinn threw clothes into a suitcase.

"_I love you too," he whispers back._

He'd thrown the word almost carelessly at her. He didn't comprehend the true meaning of the simple four-letter word: so powerful and so dangerous.

"_I will always love you," he repeats, with a little more conviction._

_Quinn's eyes close, but he sees a spark of fiery elation before she hides it. For such a frigid girlfriend, one whose icy shield never cracks under pressure and challenge when directly confronted, one who never lets him get further than second base, this sudden display of emotion is touching. _

_Then she's kissing him again, and he can feel the hot fire rushing through his veins. He's dazzled by the fireworks exploding behind his closed eyelids as her hands cling to his chest tightly._

_It's only when he extricates himself from her arms to go to the bathroom that he notices the text his best friend sent him an hour ago. WE NEED TO TALK. _

_Puck says something about loving Quinn so much, something about Finn not having what it takes to be a father, something about the baby is his. Quinn flinches when Finn asks her the one question, and Finn's world collapses. His proclamation of love five minutes earlier forgotten, Quinn's out of the house within fifteen minutes, sobbing on his front porch. Puck drops by, and Finn locks himself in his room for twenty-four hours._

"It didn't matter that I was his little daughter," Quinn speaks from fifteen feet away, and her voice is breaking now, crack by crack. "My father gave me fifteen minutes to leave the house." Her eyes are tearless, and her face is solid. Behind her, Mercedes and Kurt are just standing there, witnesses to the showdown. "It didn't matter that you _just_ said that you would love me forever," she states bitterly. "You just told me to get out."

"I needed to think," Finn cuts in hotly.

"And I needed you," Quinn retorts, her mask finally breaking. "I was pregnant and hormonal and depressed and I needed you."

"I couldn't think with Puck's baby inside you."

"And now that Puckerbray is gone, you want me back?"

"Yes. No!" Finn shakes his head in frustration and takes a step towards her. "I want to love you as you, not as you with Puck."

Quinn responds by stepping back one. "Whether or not it was your baby or Puck's inside me, I am still Quinn on the outside. She's the one you wounded when you abandoned her right after you said you loved her."

"I still love you."

"I can't stand you."

Finn bristles. "Is this about Puck?" If that sonofabitch still had his eyes on her even after he'd sworn allegiance to Finn…

"This is not about Puck!" Quinn shrieks, her composed façade blowing apart. "This is not about anybody! This is about me! Until I find that one person who will love me because of who I am and not because I was weak once, someone who won't leave me even when I'm a horrible bitch, I am never going to commit. I can't have my heart broken again." She takes a huge, gasping breath, tears just brimming over her eyelashes. "That person is not you," she finishes, before turning on her heel and storming past Kurt and Mercedes.

Finn's left absolutely stunned. He never knew she had been scarred that deep. It had always been a game.

Just a game.

He feels loss. After all those times, his final attempt ends in loss. His heart feels empty.

There's a piece of paper on the ground, dropped when Quinn dragged her messenger bag on the ground. _John Smith. Locker 054._

Finn sees red.

_Day Four (Friday) – Lima, Ohio_

**Tina Cohen-Chang**

It's a new day, and Tina's up the moment the first rays of dawn hit her face. Despite her dark wardrobe, Tina's room is contrastingly colorful. Her bed sheets are a light blue, the walls of her room are splatter-painted rainbow, and journals of poetry are stacked next to classics on bookshelves. A large portion of her hair is bent awkwardly when she fell asleep on it; she notices her blue highlights are fading and makes a mental note to refresh them.

After a hot shower, she throws something on that has a lot of zippers, belts, and black lace and runs downstairs. Her seven-year old brother is already down in the kitchen watching the morning news. Tina glances at the tiny, thirty year old television as she pours a bowl of cereal —in Argentina, the news shows a picture of a gigantic slab of concrete, about the size of a trailer. _Local girl, Sofia Garcia, single-handedly saves a family of five trapped underneath collapsed building._ Skepticism skittles through her head before she focuses her attention on her bowl of cereal.

"Do you really believe that?" her brother asks excitedly.

"Not really, Stevo. It was probably rigged or something. Why isn't Dad up yet?"

"Mom said something about throwing up chunks." Steven wrinkles his nose. "She said you could take the car."

Tina grins. "Awesome."

* * *

Because she has a ride, Tina arrives half an hour early to school. There's hardly anybody walking in the halls, though Hannah, who knows everybody (important) in the school, is sitting in the corner doing some homework with Zoey and Danielle. Danielle acknowledges her as Tina passes, exchanging a smile and a nod. Hannah follows with an_ I Love Everyone_ grin while Zoey purposely ignores her.

Tina continues to her locker. On the way, she passes the row of unassigned lockers. A couple lima beans lie scattered about the floor, and at first, Tina's seized with fear that the jocks might have beaned her locker. But she quickly realizes that her locker is still down the hall, and she relaxes. Still, she hopes that whoever got their locker filled with lima beans doesn't have anything valuable in there.

With nothing left to do for another twenty minutes, Tina decides to step into the darkroom. She was one of the few people that supported Quinn's proposal to include a photography elective in the curriculum, and so she had to give up choir to take this class. She still misses singing, but in return, Mr. Schue's been giving her and Mercedes a lot more solos. Sunshine even defers to her sometimes, despite the fact that the small star's voice is infinitely more versatile than Tina's low, sugary tone.

When she slips inside, Quinn is already there. She starts and looks up, spotting Tina almost instantly. "Hello, Tina."

"I'm surprised you recognized me," Tina remarks, gesturing to her dark hair and clothes. "It's so dark in here."

"I've been here for about half an hour," Quinn responds. "I've gotten used to the red lights."

Tina saunters over, looking at the film soaking in the running water bath. "You took all these?" she asks in amazement. About a dozen black and white photos are sitting in the tank, and Tina leans down to inspect one. She can't see the images, however, distorted as they are underneath the water.

Quinn nudges Tina aside and goes to pick one up. "Here," she says softly, hanging one up to dry.

Tina looks closely at the large photo. The photo is in on somebody's bed; Kurt's back faces the photo, with none of his face visible. Both Quinn's and Mercedes' backs are pressed against his shoulder, their faces in profile. They make a stark contrast, especially with the black and white; Quinn's blonde waves and Mercedes' black tresses are swept over the shoulders facing the camera. Both are emotionless, but in the space between the trio's backs, underneath the locks of hair, Quinn and Mercedes clasp both of Kurt's hands with one of theirs.

"Wow," Tina breathes. The photo is almost symbolic. She feels the urge to put the image into words, possibly even song. After a pause, she turns and asks, "Poetic. What does it mean?"

Quinn shrugs shyly and goes to pull out more soaking photo prints. "I don't know," she admits. "I've seen your writing -, you tell me."

Tina observes the photo for about a minute before she finally articulates, "I like the black and white contrast with you and Mercedes. Like a light and dark side. Kurt turning his back on the camera represents when you're hiding from the world. But no matter which side of you the world sees, there's a bond between you three that goes deeper than surface level."

Tina tries to hide it, but even she can hear the emotions in her own voice: sensitive and slightly wistful. She thought her relationship with Artie would go on forever. She was really into him, and last year, it had seemed like he felt the same. But over the summer, they'd fallen into a lull. Or he had. She tried calling, but when he'd gone an entire week without answering her calls, she actually went to his house… and found him in his room, alone, lying in bed and playing Halo. His mom said he'd been like that for about five days.

When the school year started, she thought everything would return to normal. They'd be back in the rhythm of sharing classes, singing together in Glee, walking home from school. She couldn't be more wrong; if anything, Artie simply took her presence for granted. The song he'd sung yesterday about moving forward had nothing to do with her, even though the song she'd chosen had been all about how he empowered her. Everybody still expected them to be together: the strange vamp girl and the paraplegic, two outcasts who paired up.

She still wants that. She wants Artie. She's just not sure he wants her as much as she does. That breaks her heart.

Softly and sincerely, Quinn asks, "Is there something between you and Artie?"

Tina drops her head so that her dark hair curtains around her face, effectively shielding her. It was a habit she'd tried to get rid of during middle school, but in times of extreme stress, she opted to the behavior automatically. She is not going to rant here. That's for her empty white sheets of paper waiting at home. Her books full of poetry, possible songs waiting to be released. "We're fine," she lies, but even she can't believe it. So she shakes her head vigorously and brings her head up to show a small smile. "You've got real talent, Quinn," she compliments, gesturing to the photos hanging on the line. Another one is just of Kurt and Mercedes, lying next to each other in full relaxation. "But that doesn't cover the Glee assignment. Have you thought of something yet?"

"I think you have a lot of material to work with," Quinn comments gently, ignoring the attempt to redirect conversation. "We both do. Think about it and tell Luke and Tyson later. I've already got set it up."

Tina laughs. "Tyson is unbelievably shy—I'll tell Ashley."

**Sunshine Corazon**

She chose her English name upon a lot of thought—she wanted something to reflect her positive outlook on life, the hope that tomorrow would always be a new day. Maybe not a better day, but things would happen tomorrow that didn't today. And that was always something to look forward to.

Quinn walks up to the front of the room. She's serene and graceful and quiet, and she draws everybody's attention immediately. The lyrics that flow from her mouth are emotional: gentle and sad.

"_How pale is the sky that brings forth the rain/ As the changing of seasons prepares me again./ For the long bitter nights and the wild winter's day,/ My heart has grown cold my love stored away."_

The song is largely acoustic—Brad is back at the piano; the string quartet pours their emotions into their instruments; Tyson monitors the sound board studiously.

"_I've taken the pain no girl should endure,/ But faith can move mountains of that I am sure./ Just get me through December;/ A promise I'll remember./ Get me through December so I can start again._"

Sunshine melds her voice with Quinn's, soft and yearning. Quinn glances over, but she doesn't protest.

"_Peace is a gift that must come from within./ I've looked for the love that will bring me to rest,/ Feeding this hunger beating strong in my chest."_

She doesn't know much of Quinn's background; last year, she didn't understand as much English as she does now, and a lot of the drama had rolled over her optimistic head without her knowledge. But on that deeper female communication frequency, she understands that Quinn has gone through a lot more than the physical changes to her body. She also heard that Quinn laid it down with Finn yesterday after Glee practice, but Sunshine's not sure whether they're through the mountains yet.

"_Just get me through December;/ A promise I'll remember./ Get me through December so I can start again._"

* * *

**Side Flings, Homages, and Songs:**

_Finn Hudson's song:_  
"Don't Stop" by Fleetwood Mac

_Quinn Fabray's song:_  
"Get Me Through December" by Alison Krauss

_A/N: Thanks again to my beta The Imperfectionist, who beta'd this and the next two chapters all at once even when she was sick. _

_I have a definite idea of where I want to go with this story: it's going to follow the book I Am Number Four pretty closely until about halfway through, which is where it gets really AU. The whole life energy of the planet is an idea that the book assumed but really didn't explain all that much, so I filled it out a lot more (plus, it plays a pretty important role later on.) Again, reviews are definitely appreciated! Are there any specific Glee characters POVs that somebody wants to see in particular? Leave a comment!_


	5. Mornings

_Monday – Week Two _

**John Smith**

Training, training, training. That's all John has been doing for the past three days. In past years, Henri raised him on a healthy diet and pushed him to run every day. But over the past six days, John has been repeatedly pushed beyond his limits. Henri displays a surprising grasp on fighting technique, and the two have been working together on hand-to-hand combat and martial arts. In addition, John has been literally set on fire in the backyard and made to perform a variety of tasks, ranging from dodging tennis balls to sprinting around the perimeter of the yard carrying two dumbbells. Every time, John's still amazed at the blue glow that spreads from his palms to radiate from his entire body, protecting his skin from the highly flammable suit Henri forces him to wear.

It's five in the morning and John's already got his sixteenth flammable suit on over his clothes. The volatile substances wafting from the slow-burning bag with arm and leg holes force their aromatic way up his nose, but he breathes out deeply, closes his eyes, and wills his hands to turn on.

Henri looks at John's hands, confirming that John's power is activated and ready to act. "We'll start with dodge ball," he decides. "You ready?"

In response, John's hands flare. Twin beams of visible light pour from his palms. Henri lights a match and tosses it towards John.

The gases surrounding him ignite—but John throws his hands forward to shield his face, and the flames threatening to engulf him race around his body instead. Meanwhile, the blue glow travels quickly down his arms, hit his torso, and blast out to every extremity. Only then does John lower his hands, allowing the inferno to devour his flammable suit.

Henri turns on an automatic tennis ball pitcher, and John twists and to dodges the hard balls that speed at him. The flames swirl eight feet above his head and he can feel the sensation of heat rolling off him, but he doesn't feel pain and even his hoodie and sweatpants remain unaffected. After the initial explosion of fire, the blue glow fadesd away, leaving an invisible barrier. For To anybody else's eyes, it appears as if a ball of fire surrounds John but doesn't affect him. The sweat on his brow is not from fire, but from physical strain. The soot is from the ash rising from his suit and not his clothes.

John doesn't move fast enough, and a tennis ball smacks into his thigh. John winces and staggers, and immediately another projectile had slamsmed him in the gut. A strangled cry erupts from his throat as he collapses, pain and orange flames clouding his vision. He still sees Henri's feet come to stop in front of him, though, and hears his patient voice explaining, "You got to keep moving even after that first hit. Ignore the pain and keep moving forward—it'll get better with motion." A pause. "I'd help you get up if you weren't on fire."

John lets out a huge, suppressed sigh. The new training has induced him to sleep at least eight hours every day (he's usually able to survive fine off five hours), but he still feels lactic acid burning in his sore muscles. He knows the training speeds his power's development so that he may actually stand a fighting chance should the Mogodorians ever find him; however, he still can't help but feel resentment at Henri pushing him this hard in just three days, or that he hasn't been allowed to return to school.

In addition, the sleep and frequent naps throughout the day always bring the same images and the same visions. Visions he can't stop or interfere with. Visions he can only watch.

Altogether, John isn't feeling his best.

"Hey, look on the bright side," Henri's voice rings from above. "I think that if you grind through the new kata I'm going to teach you, you might be able to get to school on time today."

John immediately springs to his feet, and Henri leans back considerably as the flames jump with John. "Finally," John groans. "I came in at the beginning of last week and make my reappearance a week later. Great first impressions. So, what are kata?"

"Choreographed patterns of movement exercising precise form and paced steps and turns," Henri explains. "And the kata I give to you will help you utilize your body to the best of its abilities."

John licks his lips. "Awesome."

"The concepts these kata are based onf aren't a very big thing in Earth's western civilization, Oriental civilizations, with Lorien help, have integrated this into their medicine. Have you ever heard of the Dragon's Pulse? Chi or life energy?"

John latches on the last words. "Yeah, you mentioned the Mogodorians drained Lorien's life energy, but you didn't say anything about the planet actually _living_. Like, _it's alive._"

Henri's expression darkens, and he motions over to the porch. "Why don't we take a seat?" he suggests. "And take off that suit; we don't want you burning the house down."

John struggles to get out of the smoking suit; usually, he continues to train it in for another hour or so, and thus the material is so degraded that he can simply tear the ashy material apart. This one has only been burning for about twenty minutes, so he has a little trouble taking it off before following his guardian to the porch swing. They both settle comfortably, and Henri stares off into the brightening dawn.

"Every system has a flow of energy within it. Kinetic energy, gravitational energy, electromagnetic energy… it's only logical that there is also life energy flowing in us Loriens, in the Mogodorians, in Earth's humans as well.

"It has been well known among the inhabitants of both Lorien and Mogodore that one's individual life energy could be manipulated to strengthen certain properties of the body," Henri starts, still staring at the horizon. His voice is emotionless, like a classroom teacher. "Both races are community-oriented by nature, but with radically different views on the value of the members. Loriens are different in that we are monogamous—we love only once, and when we do, it is with everything that we are. Lorien bonds, romantic or not, run deeper than anything you have ever felt, all the way down to the very core of our beings. Thus, the community seeks for the betterment of everybody else, and the technique of manipulating life energy reflected that life choice.

"The Mogodorians, on the other hand, are an aggressive race that constantly seeks to prove dominance. Even within its own community, each individual attempts to rise through social strata to reach the level of the elite, even if it means tearing others down brutally. Their life energy was twisted to psychologically disturb competitors, or focused in particular body parts to deal maximum damage.

"Both races eventually found out, probably around 25,000 years ago, that they could utilize their planet's resources in its purest form: the land they stood on possessed its own life energy."

John interrupts, "Yeah, you mentioned that yesterday, and I'm still finding it a little hard to grasp that the planet has its own life?"

Henri smiles wryly. "You just can't take it from me that, when I say that the planet is alive, it means the planet is alive?"

John shakes his head. "I usually trust you—"

"…and you should…"

"—but I just don't see how Lorien could be a gigantic life form. What does it do that makes you think it's alive or something?"

"If we, as our own little systems, possess life energy, doesn't it make sense that an entire planet that sustains millions of these life forms should be the source of them? Think about it. When you were first conceived, where did that life energy come from? Your parents provided you the body, but where does the spark of life come from?"

John mulls it over, and Henri waits for John's acquiescence before carrying on. "The planet lives to survive. It lives to support life and, when that life dies—when the body expires—that life energy it gave you returns to the planet with all your experiences and struggles and achievements. The planet founds new life on top of that, and culture advances.

"However, 25,000 years ago, neither the Loriens nor the Mogodorians thought about the planet that way. They just saw that the planet seemed to possess amounts of life energy infinitely larger than their individual life energy. Both races began to harvest their planet's life energy actively: the Mogodorians to advance destructive technology and the Loriens to ease with constructive technology.

"Even though the Loriens used the planet's energy with good intentions, they didn't replenish the energy they used. Consequently, 15,000 years ago, the planet showed the first visible signs of dying. The environment was breaking down, with sensitive organisms being the first to go. We realized that we were the cause of the planet's slow destruction and sought to reverse it. We gave up a lot of the technological convenience and advocated for environment reconstruction. The planet grew strong again and the Lorien race was bound tightly to the life of the planet itself. It was then, about 10,000 years ago, that Loriens began exhibiting supernatural powers that became known as Legacies of the Planet. It was almost as if the planet was thanking its inhabitants for its conservation and was now investing in us for future protection."

They sit on the swing in silence for a moment. When it becomes apparent that Henri isn't going to continue, John prompts, "So these kata things… are going to help me… how?"

Henri looks at John squarely. "There is a bit of Lorien's life energy in you. As a member of the Garde, you possess powers that the planet has developed and given to you, and it is your Legacy to return the deed and protect the planet. These exercises are going to help you introduce that energy to your whole body so that you can use it through the manifestation of your Legacies. You might have noticed that you protect yourself with your hands first, and that the glow spreads from there. We're going to work to spread that instant immunity to the rest of your body."

John nods expectantly. "Okay."

"The kata are precise, measured, and balanced. They require calm of the inner mind and structure of the body."

John interrupts, "This sounds like yoga or something."

"Loriens have visited Earth many times in the past. Lorien and human offspring accomplished such great feats that the Greeks eventually idolized them as the great gods. Lorien architecture provided the Egyptians with the pyramids, based off their technology at the time. The Loriens' extensive knowledge on life energy enhanced the Chinese exploration of such a concept, once again applied for medicinal purposes. Our race is deeply integrated into Earth's; much of their knowledge springs from ours. The Japanese kata is a human method of manipulating their life energy. Though the average human's life energy is much more centralized than the average Lorien, we can modify kata to suit to our systems."

"Alright," John complies, jumping up from the porch swing to adopt a crouched fighting position. "Let's start this."

Henri rises after John, pulling him up to a standing position. "You're not going to be kickboxing. Just imagine life energy flowing through your limbs as you move. Fluid movements. Human life energy is centered in the head and liver. Mogodorian life energy starts in the chest and the back of the head, and Loriens have life energy centered in the heart and the hands."

For the next ten minutes, Henri leads John through slow and steady movements combined with controlled breathing. He instructs, "Let your mind go where it needs to go and just focus on spreading your life energy from your hands and chest into the rest of your body."

John repeats until he's got the pattern down; Henri steps away and lets John go through the motions, then begins to walk back towards the house. John watches him go, then relaxes—but before he can block everything out, he hears Henri mischievously add, "By the way, to work on your endurance, you'll be running to school from now on."

John lets out a huff of protest, but Henri lets the closing slam of the back door answer for him. John settles and focuses again, and then he hears nothing but the beating of his own heart.

* * *

**Noah Puckerman**

Puck is extremely meticulous about his body. He considers it his biggest asset; the ladies are all over it constantly and have been since eighth grade. Santana can't stop coming back to it even when she's squirmed under him a thousand times. His best friend's girlfriend, the ice queen, melted underneath his influence. Even the undesirable freaks like the quiet Asian vamp or the two Glee divas can't help but appreciate his form. The only girl who hasn't ever seized the chance to jump his bones when he's offered the chance is Lauren Zizes. Hell, she's still holding out on him. He can't feel up her curves without her threatening to break his arm (which she is perfectly capable of).

Puck maintains his physique scrupulously by running to school every morning and working out at the school gym. It's the only time outside of football practice he can work out now that he's become a part of Glee club. So he actually likes singing. He's still in football, and he's still got the influence to pound dissenters into the pavement.

His ear buds are pumping music into his ears loudly and the pavement flies beneath him at regular intervals. Nothing but him and his music and the steady pound of his sneakers against pavement and the beating of his heart. Everything melts into the low hum of the cello.

"_Got no reason, got no shame,/ got no family I can blame./ Just don't let me disappear,/ Ima tell you everything/ So tell me what you want to hear,/ Something that were like those years./ I'm sick of all the insincere/ So I'm gonna give all my secrets away_."

An intersection is ahead, and another runner joins Puck on his street. A small dog lopes along beside the runner, who apparently has been running for quite a while, judging from the large sweat stain that occasionally shows itself from behind the light backpack he's wearing. The dog stops and looks around to look directly at Puck, who's jogging at a much slower pace. His owner continues running for a moment before he notices his dog is standing still further back. He calls the dog's name, and then spots Puck. And Puck recognizes the other runner.

The new guy, John Smith. His parents must have been stoned when they were thinking about creative names.

Other negative thoughts immediately cloud his perception of John. After all, John did humiliate his bro. Puck may think that Finn is holding onto Quinn much longer than necessary, but he's in no position to protest Finn's obsession, because Puck is the main reason behind their final breakup. Read: he got his best friend's girlfriend pregnant. And by pushing his spawn into her, Puck changed her life completely. Finn and Puck don't really talk about last year's incident at all; after the baby disappeared into adoption papers, Finn had simply pretended as if the entire ordeal had never happened. Finn had even brushed him off when he'd apologized.

"_Hey man, I'm serious." Puck plants his feet in front of Finn, who refuses to look him in the eye. "We need to work together again if we're going to win this next football game."_

_Finn mumbles something, and Puck takes that as an affirmative._

_Puck raises his fist for a fist bump. "Finn, I've always been your wingman. I'll be behind you all the way, backing you up."_

_A small smile creeps its way across Finn's face, and he returns the first bump. "Alright man, let's do this."_

John is still standing ahead. He doesn't seem to recognize Puck, and Puck feels slighted. He's the only guy with a Mohawk in the entire school., Oone would think he's make an impression.

The dog runs towards Puck, its ears flopping around randomly, then turns around and runs with him. Puck shoots John a questioning glare, but John shrugs and continues running when Puck catches up. Despite the large sweat stain, John doesn't even look winded.

"My dog seems to like you," John comments. "Guess I can't argue with that."

So he does remember. Puck chooses to play it up friendly anyways. Puck might be Finn's right hand man, but that doesn't mean can't choose who he talks to.

Then again, Quinn is his ex and _she_ can't choose who she talks to without Finn jumping to conclusions.

What Finn doesn't know won't hurt him.

"What's his name?" Puck asks amiably, pointing down at the goofy dog.

"Bernie Kosar," is the brief reply. Puck looks at John's face, checking for sarcasm. John is completely serious.

"You named him after the football player who was born here in Ohio? I thought you came from Mexico or something."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"You've got a wicked tan—you're definitely not from around here."

"New Mexico," John grins. "That's still in America. And Bernie Kosar's a stray. I found him two days ago."

They lapse into silence. Just the pound of their feet against the pavement.

"Are you not from around here too?" John asks, motioning at Puck's dark complexion.

"Naw, I'm mixed. There's Spanish blood in there somewhere."

John looks down at his dog, who barks. He then looks up at Puck, as if to evaluate him. "Jewish?"

"Yeah." _The hell, did he just talk to his dog?_

John poses the next question, and it comes dangerously close to the angry mess that is Quinn/Finn. "How do you know Finn?"

Puck sighs. "We've been best friends since first grade. Lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same tiny elementary school, broke windows with baseballs, threw Santana's cats off the roof of her house, crashed our bikes into trees—we did all that shit together."

"Threw cats off somebody's house?"

Puck shrugs. "Santana's old house was embedded into a hill. You could drop onto the roof by climbing the oak tree. Her cats were always sunning up there, until we came by on a regular basis after school."

"You have a lot of history here."

Puck scowls. "What about you? What was New Mexico like?"

John struggles for words. "Hot. Dry. Uh, small."

Awkward silence follows. It doesn't seem like John knows New Mexico very well. Puck doesn't press it though. They're climbing the last hill before the high school, and John keeps gaining ground ahead of Puck with his long, easy strides. Even the dog, Bernie Kosar, is beating him. "Where do you live?" Puck pants. "How long have you been running?"

"I, uh, I live out of town."

"You ran all the way here?"

John shrugs. "I left an hour ago."

The dog barks in agreement. It falls back to trot faithfully next to Puck, who gives it a strange look.

"Finally," John huffs, breaching the top of the hill. He calls the dog to his side and tells it to go home. The dog whines and looks at John through the top of its eyes, so John pets it and motions it off. The dog turns around and sprints past Puck, headed in the opposite direction. "I guess I'll see you around?" John says formally when Puck catches up.

"Wait," Puck says. There aren't very many high schoolers who are morning people, and many less who appreciate working out first thing in the morning. The few remaining don't even show up till 7:55. He's got about twenty minutes until Tyson or Dave Karofsky show up. "The school has a gym; I'm going there to work out and I need somebody to spot me."

John pauses. "What?"

"Don't tell me you've never worked out," Puck exclaims, nodding at the tight cords in John's arms.

John shakes his head. "I run a lot."

"Come on," Puck says, pulling John towards the school. "You've got time."

Before the two enter the school gym, Puck looks around. If Finn caught him sneaking into the school with John, Puck would never hear the end of it.

He catches sight of a singular girl, just standing on the other side of the parking lot. She's dressed entirely in leather and her stance is formidable. Brown tresses tumble down either side of her head, and even from here, he can feel the intensity of her gaze. She's holding something in her hand that glints in the sunlight. He looks back at John and asks, "Do you know that chick?"

John comes back outside. "Who?"

Puck looks back.

She's gone.

* * *

**Artie Abrams**

By the time Artie arrives at McKinley High seven minutes before class, the latest gossip is already focused on the new guy, John Smith. He'd made plenty of ripples dropping into school on Tuesday and making the mistake of talking to Quinn without a reasonable excuse. Finn had picked a fight, and John promptly went home sick. As if that wasn't enough, somebody had spotted John this morning in the showers with recent bruises on his thigh. The kid was gossip material. On top of that, he was beautiful gossip material, and girls' tongues everywhere were especially loose today.

As Artie tries to navigate his wheelchair awkward through the throng, he hears the school's gossip girl/school newspaper editor, Jacob Ben-Israel, proclaiming that the bruises are small enough to be made by the toe of somebody's shoe—possibly Finn's, or one of his other lackeys who got carried away.

Artie hopes that's not the case. The Finn who had saved him from a Porta-Potty tipping last year was _not_ that brutal or sadistic. However much Finn wanted to inflate his position as the alpha male at the top of the high school social ladder, the softie at heart could never kick a person when he's down. Finn was supposed to be the different jock, the one who broke down those social barriers by joining glee club. Surely he wouldn't stoop to vicious treatment of the bottom feeders after having been an integral part of the Glee club's of outcasts.

He wonders where Tina is. He really hopes she's not mad at him. Last night, he'd finally achieved an online Top Ten position in the world. _Top Ten in the friggin' world, motherfuckers._ He'd been so excited to share the news with his girlfriend, but the moment he'd picked up his phone to call her, he noticed he had 18 missed calls, 6 voicemails, and 9 text messages. This wasn't unusual, and his profuse apologies and special treats afterwards always seemed to soothe her. But this time… the last text in capital letters silently screamed: _WE NEED TO TALK._

Somebody grips the back of his wheelchair and helps him to navigate the sea of high school students, and Artie sighs in relief as he turns to see Kurt. "Thanks, man," he gets out before the worry in Kurt's face stops him. "Is there something wrong?"

"Probably," Kurt replies, and most of the biting, condescending tone he usually carries around with him in all situations is gone from his voice. "Tina wants to talk to you."

Artie's heart drops into his stomach, where it sloshes sluggishly as Kurt wheels him down a less crowded hall. "Where is she?"

"The converted darkroom," Kurt replies, releasing Artie now that they've left the main crowd. Artie wheels around to face Kurt as Kurt says almost apologetically, "I'm sorry."

Artie laughs uncertainly, "What are you sorry for, man?"

Kurt stares at him for a long moment, then turns away silently.

The five minute bell rings. Five minutes to get to class. Does Tina really need to talk to him so badly that she's willing to be late to class? Despite her statement of rebellion against her mother by wearing radical, definitely-non-Asian clothes, Tina still adheres to typical Asian standards, like keeping up her grades and always being punctual for meetings. Including class.

Artie doesn't like being late either; McKinley is stringent when it comes to tardies and absences. Still, the memory of Tina's urgent text, her refusal to answers his many phone calls afterwards, and the most recent one of Kurt's stricken face makes him move on autopilot till he's sitting in front of the darkroom door.

He knocks tentatively. If nobody opens the door within ten seconds, he's going to turn around and run for it. Roll for it. Whatever. Five seconds. He'll tell her he came by, but nobody was there. Why is he making excuses? It's not like—

The door opens cautiously. The morning light streams in on Tina's tear streaked face. She's not wearing any makeup, but Artie finds that she's still so beautiful and oh god he doesn't want to lose her_, please, please, don't leave me_.

She opens the door all the way, and Artie rolls in. "Hey girl," he chirps falsely. "Why are we talking in here?"

He can barely make out her dark form walking towards the sinks. She still hasn't spoken. Artie is briefly seized by an irrational fear that Tina really is a vampire and that she's brought him to this eerie, blood red darkroom to suck his body dry and dispose of the evidence in the dark recesses of the room where bright light will never shine. Oh god.

_Get a grip,_ he smacks himself mentally as he follows her cautiously. His back wheels flash different colors in the darkness. Tina's fishing around in the tanks of water for something. She's in the new photography class that Quinn and Mercedes proposed last spring. How did he forget that?

There are at least ten other photos on the line. They're from the summer time. Before school had gotten out, Quinn had scored a couple camera donations. Before she committed them to the school, she let her friends run wild with them for a summer month. All the cameras came back in one piece and are now locked in the darkroom, but Tina was one of the lucky few who received a camera. Tina and Artie had shared a couple summer moments before his game had sucked him in. These photos were physical evidence of their relationship. He wonders why Tina hadn't developed them earlier.

There's one where Artie's holding the camera above his head as Tina pushes his wheelchair, her happy, open face the only constant thing on a blurred background. One of Tina sitting in his lap in his front yard. Another one with his little brother, Steven, sitting on her lap and her sitting in his. One of Tina wearing his glasses. Him lying on a picnic blanket, out of his wheelchair, in the local park. She's holding him, he's holding her. One where she's lying on top of him, her bare legs rising out of her summer dress to tangle around his. One where she put a random timer on the camera and kissed him till he was breathless. In all of them, they are absolutely happy, with beaming faces, wide smiles, eyes that are alive and dancing despite the contrasting black and white.

He can't remember seeing her face like that, he realizes. "Tina, baby," he says slowly. "We—"

"No," she cuts him off. She starts clipping up more photos. Just her. He doesn't know when these have been taken because he hasn't been in her room since summer. They might be recent. She's sitting alone in the window seat in her bedroom, white earphones in her ears. She's gripping the doorknob of her bedroom door, doing the hair curtain thing again, and hiding from the camera. She's trying on clothes, and they all reflect her mood: dark, expressive, emotional, and deep-thinking. Alone. One hand pressed against the mirror, her eyes searching her reflection for something lost.

"Tina," he tries again. "I am—"

"I don't want to hear it," she says bitterly. "I tried. I really tried." She begins pulling the summer photos off the line carelessly, stacking them in a wet pile and tossing them in his lap. "Here. This was us." She pulls on the line so that the photos of herself are hanging over the tub, in front of both of them. "And this is me."

Artie feels like he's been punched in the gut. "You're… Are… are we breaking up?"

Tina inspects her handiwork and doesn't answer immediately. The last bell rings, but the shrill sound can't cut through the heavy silence between them. He can barely see her.

She faces him, but her hair is swept to one side and her chin is raised and proud. "I still lo… I still care about you," she says, her voice trembling slightly. "But it's obvious you don't care enough about me." She stops his protest again. "Not now. Anything you say is going to be clouded by what I'm saying right now." She takes a deep breath. "I think we should be apart for a while. Go and think about our lives without each other. See if we can live without the other." Her breath is coming quicker, as if she's trying to hold back sobs. "And if we can, then it was never meant to be."

Artie's left speechless. Any further thought disappears when Tina brashly grasps either side of his wheelchair, leans down, and kisses him hungrily. He responds just as frantically, but his wheelchair keeps him confined when she pulls back and runs out of the darkroom (though she does remember to jam something under the door so that it stays open for him).

Silence. Nothing but the drip of water from Tina's self portraits. Water is soaking into his lap from their past memories, but all he can feel is the water running down his cheeks.

* * *

**Side Flings and Homages:**

_Puck's running song:  
_"Secrets" by OneRepublic

_A/N: Final Fantasy VII, anybody? That's mainly my inspiration for the life energy of a planet. It's not actually my own belief, but it makes for an incredibly interesting concept, one that is integral to this fanfiction.  
Let me know what you guys think, or at least give me a short line-I love reviews! _


	6. Falling

_Monday – Week Two_

**Mike Chang**

He's late for class. Almost five minutes late. His mom was passed out on the couch again after a drunken night and couldn't be roused to drive him to school, so Mike had to run. Last year, he would have just called his best friend, Matt Rutherford, to take him—but the bullying finally got so bad that Matt's parents transferred him. After that, he'd had nobody to talk to. His dad had been kidnapped years earlier and his hormonally-imbalanced mom drank and cried herself to sleep most nights. Without Matt, Mike had nobody left. Nothing but his alien conspiracy theories and his magazines.

When he pushes into the school hurriedly, he almost runs the door into somebody. The person shrieks and Mike's glasses fall off his head. It's slightly ironic that he has trouble seeing without the glasses; although he had almost perfect vision two years ago, the constant reminder of his father perched on his nose has distorted his vision so that he can almost make out facial expressions of people standing in front of him with the glasses on, but he's almost blind without them.

He stoops to help the person he knocked over and realizes it's Tina Cohen-Chang. She looks like she's been crying. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "Are you okay?"

Tina shakes her head, and her voice betrays her emotion. "Not at all."

"Do you need to go to the nurse?"

"Not that kind of hurt," Tina replies brokenly.

She broke up with Artie? He doesn't ask that, though. She needs space and time alone, though why she would spend it behind the door Mike doesn't know. "Do you need anything?"

Tina withdraws into herself. "No, I'll be fine. Thanks."

Mike highly doubts this, but figures she'll come out on her own time. He scans through his various observations of her over the past year or so in Glee club. "I'm sure Mercedes will listen when you're ready."

Tina looks up in surprise, but Mike's already heading to his next class. He detours to the bathroom first, and finds John Smith standing shirtless in front of the sinks, washing his shirt of a gray, splattered mess.

Wet, mushy lima beans. It had been some jock's brilliant idea to replace the Slushie, which the Parents Teachers Association had finally cracked down on. Instead, a spring mechanism would shoot a slimy mass of overcooked lima beans at whoever opened the locker. The act was much more covert and made it harder to catch the perpetrators while still achieving the same humiliation.

John looks up, and recognition shows in his eyes. "Hey, I never caught your name… last week," he greets sheepishly.

Now that he recalls, Mike had never given his name to John. "Mike Chang," he says, offering his hand.

John takes it firmly, then resumes washing his shirt. "Why lima beans?" he asks busily.

"Dumb jock irony," Mike responds. "Lima, Ohio. Lima beans." He reaches into his backpack and pulls out his extra Slushie shirt, presenting it to John.

John looks up in surprise. "What?"

"Take it."

John smiles uncertainly. "You just carry an extra shirt around randomly?" He slips it on. It's small and tight on his large frame, but it's something. "Thanks."

"You weren't here last year, but it used to be common for jocks to Slushie people they thought needed to be taken down a peg. To maintain social order and all."

John looks shocked. "Slushies?"

"Ice slushies. Grape, cherry, orange, and root beer." Mike shrugs. "I used to keep my Slushie shirt in my locker, but then they started rigging lockers with lima bean bombs."

"That's terrible," John growls, wringing out his shirt.

Mike keeps going. Somebody's listening to him again; when Matt left, he didn't feel comfortable opening up to anybody else—even in the Glee club. "My friend's parents finally sued the school. Everybody in school gave him so much crap about it that he had to transfer." Mike shrugs. "Not that it made any difference. Bullying is bullying, and they'll just find other ways to express it. They just don't do it in plain sight anymore."

John's shaking his head. "How does the school just allow that to happen?"

"People can be blind when they want to be." Mike's fingers trace the frame of his father's glasses. He knows his father saw something that everybody else ignored. They ridiculed him while he pursued it and wrote him off when he disappeared because of it. Maybe, if he wears his father's glasses enough, he might be able to see whatever his father saw the night he was kidnapped.

John snorts in disgust. "That's messed up." By now, he's relatively satisfied with his damp shirt, so he folds it and tucks it into his backpack. "Well, I'll see you in astronomy?"

Matt's gone and he has no one left, but John actually sees the school from Mike's point of view: a twisted social order that self-enforces itself, with no interference from adults that should be doing so. John is one of the few people who have actually considered his opinion instead of blowing him off, other than his father. And Matt.

Mike smiles. "Sure."

* * *

_Wednesday – Week Two _

**John Smith **

He doesn't want to fall asleep, even though it's eleven at night and he's dog tired from training. In six hours, he and Henri will warm up with kata, pound through training, and work on developing his Legacy. Henri says that his second Legacy, telekinesis, should kick in any moment now, and he encourages John to stop thrown tennis balls from hitting the ground. They haven't gotten very far with that yet, but there are plenty of other things going on in John's mind.

The thing is, John doesn't _want_ to fall asleep. Sleep is equivalent to letting his mind go blank, and letting his consciousness sink into the background allows the visions to move in. Sometimes he remembers them from his past and remembers being a part of them. Sometimes, it's as if he's watching a slideshow of somebody else's life. Sometimes he has brief glimpses of his grandparents and his house on the hill with a large tree up front. Most of the time, he sees fire and blood.

The visions start off calm. Warm breezes, a brilliant sun. These images are disjointed, flashing by arbitrarily.

_His grandmother stands over him in the bathtub and her mouth is open to say something._

_His grandfather's strong hands are pushing him on a swing. Four-year John looks over his shoulder and catches the vivid green eyes. His grandfather's hands are weathered and tanned and not glowing._

_His four-year old self is laughing uncontrollably as a squat creature lands on top of him gently, licking his face. It's about the size of a dog but looks like a tiger with six legs and a large, paddle-like tail. Still, it's gentle and obviously intelligent and takes the care not to hurt him. Its legs coil and, right before it springs, John latches onto its underbelly. The creature modifies its jump so as not to harm the toddler clinging to its underside, rolling over in midair. Suddenly, its limbs lengthen disproportionately to make contact with the ground, making it look like a large, furry crab. It tilts its torso so John slides down harmlessly down its tail onto the ground, down in front of his grandfather and another man, who John just notices._

_The man is dressed in a skin-tight blue and silver uniform and is quite young. He greets John's grandfather warmly and nods at the animal, saying the name "Hadley" and speaking favorably about it. Then he leans down to John's eye level, and John recognizes similarities that he sees every time he looks in a mirror._

_Hadley stalks next to them, slowly shifting until it looks like a mixture of a bear and a lion. The blue and silver suited man rises to scratch the creature under the chin, and it leans into the touch, purring pleasurably. _

_John is suddenly flying. He has full control over his own body, but it's almost as if some invisible force caused by the man in blue and silver is pushing his stomach upwards. The man in blue and silver orchestrates John's passage in the sky, and Hadley suddenly sprouts enormous wings and launches into the air. Its snout stretches into a flexible, long beak which nips lightly at John's chest but darts away before John can wrap his pudgy arms around it._

_The slideshow moves on. The setting is at the same hill, the same house with the huge tree in the front yard, but four-year old John is gone. Hadley is gone. His grandfather is gone. The blue skies and bright sunshine are gone. Instead, the sky is blood red with fire. It paints everything else in deathly crimson, reflecting the pools of crimson flowing from motionless mounds of bodies. The only constant in the entire scene is the man in silver and blue. With a huge wrenching motion, the man telekinetically rips the front yard's tree, roots and all, from the ground in an impressive display of power. He throws it directly through John's virtual image, and John whirls around in time to see the huge, skeletal branches squelch into a gigantic monster. _

_The monster looks like a moving Venus fly trap, slithering along the ground along slimy tentacles. It's slathered in carnage, most of it not from itself. Its head is mostly mouth, and the mouth is a gigantic mess of teeth that shoot out from between its lips, as if they can't be contained. With each breath, drool and blood flies out in sticky globs, hitting the grass and sizzling. When the tree smashes into its mouth, it staggers and slides backwards slightly, but, despite looking top-heavy, it doesn't fall over. The tree refuses to move, jammed into the ground and the monsters' mouth at both ends, so the monster easily closes its mouth over the obstacle. It is quickly reduced to tiny splinters, and the monster continues moving over it. Tentacles lift themselves sluggishly from the mass beneath it, but when they rise to the height of the monster itself, they harden into tight whips and begin smashing around._

_The man in blue and silver heaves upwards with difficulty, and the monster makes a spluttering, wet noise of surprise as it rises five feet off the ground. Its tentacles continue to try to push it along, but the man in blue and silver keeps him suspended in place. The man in blue and silverHe then twists the monster so that it's hanging sideways and throws it. It screams as it rolls down the hill, its tentacles and whips flailing wildly. Another Garde shows up in a brown and red suit, and she smashes her palms to the ground. A huge stone spike shoots out of the pavement in front of her, impaling the monster and bring its roll to a halt. _

_Despite the fact that the main body is now literally pinned in place, the tentacles begin to gain minds of their own. Spikes protrude from some of the feelers not hardened into whips, and they try to lash at the female, who feebly tries to raise a stone wall. The man in blue and silver reaches a hand forward and the majority of the tentacles freeze in midair. The act of holding so many separate entities at once puts a lot of strain on the manhim, and John can see the sweat and soot shining in the moonlight on the man's face._

_A curtain of fire wraps around the creature as another Garde steps into the fight. More and more join powered Loriens join, slowly dismembering the monster with concentrated lasers and elemental powers. Some do work unseen, standing with their feet planted and their palms facing forward; psychic disturbances distorting the air in front of them. Three Garde float in the air together, each pulling on their own element and forming a vortex of cloud and smoke and charged energy above the monster. The small tornado of power culminates in a cackling, thrumming ball of energy, which focuses into a huge thunderbolt and strikes the monster. It screams once; then, all the tentacles fall limp and the monster finally dies._

_The vision shifts again. John is no longer next to his house. He's at the public square again, watching a woman in yellow and green in front of two children. It's the same thing over and over again and he can't ever affect the final result. Her chest blossoms red as the Mogodorian soldier slashes his glowing sword across her uniform, and, as her final act, she telekinetically snaps his neck. The children clutch at each other in sheer terror. John notices more details this time. They're still holding sparklers in their hands from the celebration. One is crying uncontrollably, the other is stiff in shock. They're both unable to move. That's why the Lorien race was defeated so easily: they protected the children, who were already sitting ducks. An adult appears on the other side of the square, screaming at them to get into the cover of the buildings. He wears civilian clothing: a Cêpan. The crying one is snapped out of her dazed state by the shout and makes to pull the other to safer ground, but then they disappear underneath another bloodthirsty Mogodorian monster which pounces on top of them, spraying blood everywhere. The Cêpan who shouted the warning gasps as a glowing sword protrudes from his chest. A Mogodorian soldier steps from behind him and yanks his sword back out, letting the man fall lifelessly to the ground. _

_John can't stop looking. He wants to scream and he wants to cry, he wants to save people but all he can see are the still bodies strewn all over the public square and in the streets. There is not one thing he can do to change the outcome. Lorien dies._

_There's a low rumble that reverberates through the land, and, once again, John looks to the exact spot where a sleek spacecraft rises. It leaves behind a sparkling blue trail. Mogodorians shout in surprise and discuss the leaving craft in agitation. Some Loriens wail in frustration as they realize there was a viable option of escape they didn't know about. Others rejoice that a few will be spared from death. _

_Orange fire and crimson blood consume all. He can't change the outcome: Lorien dies, but he and Henri escape. _

_And then a larger explosion. John cringes at what he thinks is another bomb, but this orange cloud of flame is prolonged and appears to be billowing out of the bottom of another spacecraft, much like Earth's space shuttles. This craft is much more bulkier, white, and leaves behind a thick cloud of smoke and flame. It's nothing like the smooth, efficient propulsion provided by Lorien energy crystals. John is confused; Henri had never told him about a second ship. He'd witnessed the smooth spacecraft carrying him and Henri and other eight pairs of Garde children and Cêpan guardians multiple times in previous visions, but this is the first time he's ever noticed a second spacecraft. The second ship lurches drunkenly into the sky, but it steadily gains speed and continues to rise straight up; John watches it until it disappears into outer space. All the way, the Mogodorians shout and point at it. Lorien determination rises at the encouragement that more might escape death. _

_More energy hums in the ozone-scented air as more Mogodorians fall. But for every Mogodorian that falls, three more step in to take its place. And for every Garde that falls, two more Cêpan and three children are struck down mercilessly._

_The scene shifts again. He's back on his house on the hill, overlooking the city. The sun is just rising over the land, illuminating the many pillars of smoke rising from the city and the land bathed in red. Nothing moves; the forests are burned, the wildlife slaughtered, the inhabitants and protectors of the planet lying everywhere in mounds. Not all of them are intact. Not all of them are whole. John turns around. Right next to him is the earthen pillar still spearing the Venus fly trap monster. Its gigantic eyes are glazed over in death. John continues turning around to look at his house. It's been obliterated, the entire roof and half the front ripped off. He can see into the kitchen, where the broken remains of the earth-manipulating Garde in red and brown hang—ironically impaled upon the banister of a wooden staircase. _

_But then, John's eyes focus on the bodies strewn on the front lawn. The yard where he had played with Hadley, or run from his grandfather to avoid going inside for dinner. On top of another stack of bodies is the man in blue and silver, dead like everybody else. His suit is unmarred and unbroken, and his body lies at a natural angle, as if resting. Nevertheless, he is dead all the same, and his open eyes are glazed over in deathlifeless__._

John's body jolts in shock, and his eyes dart frantically about. His room. His dark bedroom. His alarm clock says three in the morning. He can't breathe, can't get anything past the huge lump in his throat. His mouth is dry and parched. His eyes are burning. He sits up, gasping for air. He can only croak, his throat is so constricted.

A large shapelooms above him. John has a flashback to a soldier standing above him, his glowing sword held at ready. He can't move. He's absolutely defenseless, like those children. But then the figure sits next to him on his bed. One strong hand supports his back while the other hand pushes something into his tightly bunched fists. A glass of water. John lifts the glass to his lips and tentatively sips at first. The cool liquid loosens the knot in his throat, and he drains the entire glass. Henri takes the glass back, refills it in the hallway bathroom, and returns.

John tries to catch his breath. There is warm water drying on his cheeks. Something snuffles up against his other side. Bernie Kosar. The beagle lays its head in John's lap comfortingly, and John soothes himself by gently petting the dog along the length of its small body. Henri waits for John to speak on his own time.

John finally takes a shaky breath. "I think… I think I saw my dad. The man in blue and silver."

Henri nods in the darkness. "The things you remember are going to be the things most important and relevant to you.

"Your father wasn't supposed to come around a lot. Raising children is left to the retired grandparents; your father was meant to serve the planet, but he still came by often to see you."

John closes his eyes and regains control of himself. His vision is adjusting to the darkness slowly, but then he remembers his Lumen. His palms flicker on slowly, dimming to an acceptable white nightlight glow. Shortly after his training, he's been able to control his Lumen. "And I remembered Hadley."

Henri gives a small smile. John can see bags under his eyes. "You remembered him."

"What was he? He kept… changing."

"A chimera. They're a strange species. They all have a bit of Lorien inside of them too, and they were on Lorien before we were, yet they moved over and allowed us to take dominance of the planet."

John continues to pet Bernie Kosar lazily; the rhythmic motion calms him. "Why didn't you ever mention a second ship?"

"Huh?"

"There was a second ship. Another spacecraft that took off after us."

Henri takes the empty glass from John and sets it on the floor. "That's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because the space ports were the first things the Mogodorians bombed. Their goal was to contain and maximize the life energy gained, and they couldn't have the life escaping off the planet to haunt them again at a later time."

"Then how were we able to get a ship?"

"There was an extremely expensive prototype hidden in a reinforced bunker underneath the airstrip. That portion of the airstrip was largely unblocked and survived most of the damage. It was a miracle we made it out."

"How were we there in the first place?"

"We were there for an air show, and afterwards we toured the airfield. We were underground when the first bombs hit."

"Nine Garde and nine Cêpan just happened to be touring when the bombs hit."

"There were ten other groups of Cêpan-Garde couples touring other historic sites."

John falls silent for a moment. Again, his group happened to be the group that was in the right place at the right time. "How was it decided that we should leave, then?" he asks. "It's not like we could just commandeer a prototype and fly off within a couple minutes."

"We left three hours after the invasion started. Did you not remember any of that in your visions?"

John thinks over the past six days of dreams and nightmarish visions. Of course he could never dream about blue skies and sunshine and a swing on a tree in front of his grandparents' house. He had to dream about the invasion; he had to find out every single detail from his last moments on his home planet. "I remember my grandparents saying something to me in a building. The lights were flickering. There was a hole in the wall and I could see the fighting outside."

Henri nods slowly. "The energy crystals were being used to charge the few weapons we had at the expense of the power grid. Your grandfather told me to meet him in the upper levels of the airfield. He gave me your Inheritance inside a Loric Chest there, and he and your grandmother said their final farewells to you."

"And just like that, everybody got their Inheritances and boarded the ship for Earth?"

"Of course not. First, there was an Elder that met us at the airfield."

John struggles to remember Loric history. "The guys that have been around for thousands of years?"

"They were the ones who worked the hardest for the planet 10,000 years ago. In return, they were bound so tightly to the planet itself that they even shared with its life energy, protecting their bodies from biological decay. They weren't invincible, but they didn't age. The Elders shared in the planet's magic; the Elder who met us at the airfield, Loridas, cast that charm on you nine that branded all your ankles and bound all of you together. Then he gave each of you an amulet."

John fingers the leather string around his neck and pulls out his amulet. A small light glows at the center, pulsing softly as if alive. It's only visible in complete darkness.

"And then?"

"We originally stayed in orbit for around two weeks, waiting for the Mogodorians to leave and see if we could return to the planet. One week. That's how long it took for them to drain all the life energy they could out of Lorien. Every living thing eventually died of hunger or thirst, and their life energy returned to the planet only to be pumped up into the Mogodorian ships. When it became clear to us that the surface of Lorien would be uninhabitable for life, we set course for the closest life-supporting planet other than Mogodore: Earth."

"And when you guys were in orbit, you never caught a glimpse of the second ship?"

Henri leans forward on the bed. "Are you absolutely, positively sure there was a second ship?"

John nods, and a memory occurs to him. "It didn't come from the same place. Our ship came from the airfield; the explosion caused by the other ship happened a bit to the right of the horizon. It didn't come from the same place."

"An explosion?"

"Yeah. That ship didn't run on energy crystals. There was fire coming out of the bottom of the spacecraft, like the ones on Earth. And I watched it until it disappeared."

Henri looks anxious and thoughtful. "I don't see how that's possible," he says finally. "All the other ships were incapacitated or buried. It just doesn't make any sense."

"There was a second ship," John states firmly.

They sit through a long silence in the dark.

"Henri?"

"Yes?"

"What was on that ship?"

Henri pauses. "I don't know," he finally replies. "I truly don't know."

* * *

_Thursday – Week Two_

**Kurt Hummel**

Tater tots. Again.

They're fried just the right amount of crispy brown. While Mercedes takes two servings, Kurt can only look longingly at the greasy baskets. The Cheerio uniform tucked away in his locker prevents him from digging in.

Mercedes nudges him. "Grab one. I'll take it off your hands."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Dear, the moment I get my fingers on those greasy potatoes, I won't be able to let go."

Mercedes picks up an extra basket and plops it on his tray anyways.

The lunchroom is extremely crowded today, so the two decide to travel outside. The skies are a stormy grey, threatening to rain, but Kurt spots Tina sitting alone on the grass, plugged into her mp3 player and ignoring the world. "Come on, 'Cedes," Kurt motions.

"Hey there girlfriend," Mercedes purrs as she settles down next to Tina. Despite the cold weather, Tina is showing a bit more skin today. Kurt even notices that Tina is wearing a corset. _A corset_. And hell if it doesn't look attractive on her. "How you doing?"

Tina pulls out her ear buds and gives a small smile. "Better," she says softly.

Kurt and Mercedes meet eyes behind Tina's back, communicating solely through facial expressions and best-friend-telepathy.

_She said 'better'._ Mercedes sends. _She's acknowledging that she's still hurting._

_She was the one who broke up with him. Should we bash Artie?_

_No, she still likes him. Talk about nothing._

"Looks like it might rain," Kurt says randomly. "Hopefully it stops before the county fair this weekend."

"Hey, Tina, me and my man Kurt were planning on going," Mercedes grins. "Want to join?"

Tina pulls out a sandwich from her homemade lunch. Every day since first grade, Tina has had the same lunch: a carton of juice, a sandwich, fruit snacks, and a cheese stick. She hasn't show any signs of dissatisfaction with her sack lunch yet, though she still pilfers taters from Mercedes. "Sure," Tina grins. "Beats leaving voicemails on Artie's phone."

_Oh god, she's talking about him! Danger zone!_ Kurt motions frantically.

_Just smile and nod!_ Mercedes says with her eyes, as she proceeds to do just that smiles and nods, then spots somebody she recognizes and waves. "Quinn!"

Kurt swivels around to spot Quinn, her hands delicately holding her camera. When she spots her three friends, she lifts the device and snaps a picture of them. The new student, John Smith, follows behind her. Kurt turns to Mercedes, shooting gossip daggers at her.

Mercedes raises her hands. "He's in our photography class. It was the only elective with spots left. He doesn't even know how to use one, so Mr. Sparrow paired him up with Quinn."

The two blondes settle down on the other side of Tina, next to Mercedes. Mercedes and Quinn hug tightly, and Kurt leans forward to look all the way down the line at John. _Damn, he is fine_. Kurt hears Mercedes' singsong voice whispering in his head. He's unusually tanned for Ohio, but it's a natural color, and his messily spiked hair is dyed blonde. Kurt lets his eyes rove over John's features until John catches Kurt staring at him.

"Kurt?"

Kurt's eyes snap from John to Quinn. She is also beautiful, Kurt is willing to admit. Long blonde curls that fall around a lovely, warm face. Kurt had never noticed it last year when Quinn ruled as ice-queen-bitch, but she's improved radically since the pregnancy. Still, Kurt doesn't feel anything except an appreciation for her naturally good looks, experienced application of makeup, and tasteful selection of clothing and hats.

"Huh?"

Quinn smiles teasingly. "Cat got your tongue?"

Kurt's eyes shift over to John's face again. He feels more than appreciation for the shy expression on the hard angles of his face. Something like a fluttering in his stomach, a rush of blood and something else that makes him _want_.

Kurt quickly squashes it down. "No, just the beanie of a particular gorgeous blonde," he kids. Finn was hard enough to get over last year. He does not need to go down this road of unintentional heartbreak again. "I adore your hats. You have got to let me come over sometime and see the rest."

Quinn's fingers reach up to poof the large, white beanie over her blonde curls. "Oh, you know, bad hair day."

"Are you kidding, girl?" Mercedes exclaims, pulling at her own hair. "Your hair is just too perfect! If I didn't straighten my hair every morning…"

"What do you think of the photography assignment?" John asks. Mercedes, Tina, and Quinn pivot as one to look at him. Kurt, on the other hand, promptly looks away. As if it weren't hard enough to _want_ his looks, he just so happens to have a beautiful voice as well. John continues, "Why wouldn't you want to focus the subject in the center of your frame?"

Tina leans back on her elbows. "Weren't you listening in class at all?"

John looks distinctly uncomfortable, and all three girls dissolve into giggles. "First day of photography class and you aren't paying attention already?" Quinn exclaims, slapping him on the shoulder gently. "I worked hard to get this elective into the school."

John looks impressed. "You set the class up?"

Quinn grins coyly, but Mercedes replies, "Sure she did. She wrote an entire proposal about the originality and creativity that photography inspires, and how the creative arts should be integrated into current school systems to foster resourcefulness and productivity in teenagers. And yes, she _did_ use those big words."

"And then she went and got an expiring studio to donate their cameras to the school," Tina adds.

Quinn grimaces at the praise from her friends. "All the perks of being an influential member of society, i.e. popular," she says sarcastically. "I probably couldn't score any of those favors this year though. Now that my father's out of the house and my mom's working in real estate."

There's an awkward silence, and then Kurt pipes, "Still, props to incorporating more creative arts into the school. That, and joining Glee."

"Glee?" John asks. His eyebrows rise and Kurt feels a surge of hormones at the seemingly innocent gesture. "What's that?"

"Hey, you should come to Glee," Mercedes invites. "Can you sing? Dance? Sway in the background and look pretty?"

"None of the above," John replies sheepishly. "Never learned. Hey, Mike!" he shouts suddenly.

From across the lawn, Mike jumps when John calls his name. He looks around cautiously and only spots their group when John waves enthusiastically.

"You know Mike Chang?" Tina questions.

"He's in Glee," Kurt offers. Hold on a moment; why is he trying to recruit John to Glee when he really needs to keep his distance from another Definitely Straight Mr. Heartbreaker? "I mean, Mike doesn't sing—"

"—last year, he hardly talked," Quinn laughs.

"He's actually really nice," Tina defends. "We went to Asian camp over the summer. I was still with Artie, but Mike can be pretty down to earth if you give him the space."

"And _dayum_, that boy has got the moves," Mercedes enunciates.

"Sorry about Glee," John says playfully, "But, despite my many, many talents, singing and dancing is not one of them."

Mike drops happily next to John, his magnified eyes squinting at the group through his over large glasses. "What's up?" He motions to the camera in Quinn's hands. "Are you taking pictures of the county fair in two weeks?"

Quinn smiles politely. "How'd you know?"

"Lima's resident photographer," Mercedes motions, as if directing applause to her best friend.

"I heard Sue invested millions into the cheerleading float," Kurt remarks contemptuously. "She's coming close to skimming off the Glee budget again. For new uniforms and a gigantic banner—"

"—featuring the face of the devil herself," Quinn finishes.

John addresses Quinn, holding his own camera awkwardly. "Uh, I have to finish the past few weeks' worth of photography assignments by next week… and I don't know what the focal length is." His eyes dart between her face and his camera, as if not knowing where to look, but eventually he just settles for her face.

Quinn picks up her own camera, holding the lens. She leans towards John imperceptibly, and John shortens the gap in between them while holding his camera next to hers. Kurt's jealousy radar flares. He knows flirting when he sees it, no matter how clumsily it is executed. The sensitivity of it is heightened when an element of competition is involved.

_Competition? Get yourself together, Kurt,_ he huffs at himself.

. "The focal length is the distance between lens and the film," Quinn explains, twisting the lens slightly. "When you adjust the lens, you can focus on different objects at different distances away from you…"

John's eyes flicker up from the camera to admire on the soft features of Quinn's face. They linger there just a little longer than necessary before dropping back down to the camera again. Mercedes notices the tiny signal and turns to fire a conspiratorialy look at Kurt, only to find him already blushing furiously. Her expression changes to one of disbelief. Kurt doesn't see her, though; he only has eyes for John.

You really cannot choose who you fall for.

_A/N: Once again, a lot more background information on John—nothing new, which is why I'm pushing through this to get to the alternate universe stuff. If you'd like a particular Glee character to narrate, drop a review!_


	7. Before Our Hearts Decide

_Thursday – Week Two_

**Mercedes Jones**

Mercedes is worried.

Kurt is crushing on another Definitely Straight Mr. Heartbreaker again. Last year it was Finn, before the entire preggers debacle. Then, when Finn went sour after Quinn chose Mercedes' house over his, Kurt fell hard for Lance, a football player who Kurt insisted was a big red blip on Kurt's personal gaydar. That ended in Lima's greatest Slushie- fest of all time and resulted in the Rutherfords, an influential couple in Lima's rather tiny black community, to call upon the school board for reform.

The Slushies were banned, but Kurt's heart was broken again and Matt Rutherford had to transfer schools with all the crap people were giving him about breaking traditions. Lance joined Azimio Adams and Dave Karofsky in the continual reinforcement of the social ladder. Finn continued to deteriorate as Quinn drew further away.

And now they're all here in the present, and things are still going downhill.

They're sitting together in French, exchanging anti-jock barbs to the ignorance of the jocks sitting directly in front of them. Mercedes still doesn't know how to approach Kurt about it. She does know, though, that she doesn't want her friend to get hurt. For now, she keeps it friendly.

"_Je ne sais vraiment pas comment parler français."_

"_Je suis donc l'aide d'un traducteur en ligne."_

"_Cette émission de télévision a été régulièrement incompatible avec ses personnages ou n'a tout simplement pas leur fonction à tous, et cette histoire est presque une plainte canon."_

"Kurt!" Mercedes gasps, covering up her mouth to hold back giggles threatening to bubble up. The unsuspecting jocks turn around curiously. "Really?"

"It's true," he smiles mirthfully. "_Vous n'avez pas eu un scénario axé sur le développement de votre personnage depuis la première saison._"

"Is there something you two would like to share with the class?" Mrs. Vasquez asks from the front of the room.

"No," Mercedes calls out.

Mrs. Vasquez nods curtly, with a _Yeah, right_ scrawled all over her face. "Break up into pairs and practice the perfect tense of the verbs we've gone over in class this week. Be sure to partner up with somebody _not_ sitting next to you."

Mercedes and Kurt look at each other dubiously, but then Mercedes notices that Mrs. Vasquez is staring directly at them. "Well, I better find another partner," she says reluctantly, picking up her bag.

The aisles are crammed with classmates moving over to their second friend. Mercedes doesn't have another fast friend in this class, other than Kurt; most of her other friends and acquaintances, including her Glee clubbers, opted to take Spanish with the much less strict and definitely more attractive Mr. Schue.

Mercedes glances around the room for another loner. Kurt has already settled down with Tyson in the corner; Tyson continues to study his shoes to great length, and Kurt gives Mercedes a pained, _Why me?_ expression.

Somebody taps Mercedes' elbow. She turns around; it's Lance. She sizes him up, and he lifts his hands in surrender. "Sorry, you're the only one left."

"And that's a whole lot of me to handle," she snaps back. "_Avez-vous décidé si vous êtes gay ou hétéro encore?" _She makes sure to run her words together at the end.

Lance's brow crinkles in confusion. "Did we go over that in class?"

"_Je suppose que nous ne le saurons jamais, puisque vous n'êtes pas assez homme pour dire la vérité à ce sujet. Tu vas juste continuer à nous pousser dans les casiers et battre mon Kurt homme sans_—"

"You know a lot of French," Lance comments mildly.

"You pick it up quickly down in New Orleans."

He leans in towards her and says urgently, "I heard Kurt in there somewhere, and that's what I actually came to talk to you about."

Screaming red sirens go off in Mercedes' head. Lance flinches at the sudden hostility in her eyes, but he plows on anyways. "It's about Karofsky. He's got it out for Kurt. They're planning—"

"Still talking, Mercedes?" Mrs. Vasquez drones from directly next to them. "Can you tell me—"

Mercedes smiles back sweetly. "_J'ai visité la famille de la Nouvelle-Orléans cet été, Mme Vasquez, et j'ai déjà appris beaucoup de français, je vous remercie._"

Mrs. Vasquez frowns and moves on. "Alright, class, back to your seats. Turn to page 45 in your workbooks…"

Lance darts into Mercedes' privacy bubble, his lips right next to her ear. "The county fair next week: don't go on the hay ride," and then he's retreating to the back of the room.

Mercedes settles back at her desk but continues to shoot glances over in Lance's direction. He ignores her, choosing instead to flick tiny paper balls down at Tyson's face. Kurt nudges her, and his face is twisted somewhere before confusion and betrayal. _Are you checking him out?_

"He warned you about Karofsky," she murmurs lowly, idly scribbling words in her workbook.

"Wow. Newsflash," he mumbles back, filling in the blanks with prim cursive words.

Mrs. Vasquez is watching her like a hawk, so Mercedes leaves it at that.

* * *

_Friday – Week Two_

**Quinn Fabray**

Wow. John really doesn't know what he's doing. It doesn't look like he's even held a camera before; he carries it gently, as if the slightest bump will shatter the lens.

John had insisted strongly that no, he could not sing, and no, he did not dance. Tina and Mike were generally soft-spoken and didn't argue too long, and her stubborn loudmouths, Mercedes and Kurt, didn't press the matter any farther, despite the fact that they needed more members. So John got off easy.

However, she still had to go to Glee practice after school. And John still needed help with his camera. Since he refused to even step into the choir room ("Sway in the background and look pretty?" he scoffed. "Not even."), Quinn left him to wait outside for an hour.

And surprisingly, he waited that entire hour. She was the last one out of the choir room after Kurt and Mercedes, and he was still waiting for her. His entire face lit up in a bright smile the instant he saw her, and she feels a warmth to know that someone was waiting for her.

Almost like a faithful puppy. Except he's much more attractive.

They're sitting on the school bleachers. Despite the rain warnings, the cheerleading and football teams are still out on the field. Quinn wraps her jacket tighter around her body; John, on the other hand, is fine wearing just a hoodie.

Sue's voice is still as grating as ever, though it's much easier to ignore when it's not directly pointed at her. She holds her camera comfortably and tells him to set the color scheme to black and white. "Shooting in black and white can teach you about form and texture and contrast in a way that colour photography really can't," she explains. "The brilliance of color can distract from the image itself, so get comfortable with black and white first—the shape and texture of the images themselves. Then, when you develop your photos tomorrow (they'll be black and white anyways), sort through and review the results."

"I run to school every day," John interrupts. Quinn tilts her head questioningly, so John clarifies, "I won't be able to carry the camera and run at the same time. When we're done with this, can you keep the camera for me?"

"You don't have a car?"

John shakes his head. "Don't even have a permit."

"How are you getting home after this?"

"I'm going to Mike's house after this to get help with my geometry homework."

"But Mike doesn't have a car, and I doubt his mom will be around."

"How do you know that?"

"Small town." She can feel his eyes still on her, so she clarifies, "Last year, Santana bitched nonstop about how Matt wouldn't give her a ride because he had to go help Mike out."

"Is Matt not around anymore?"

Quinn lowers her camera in favor of the conversation. "He transferred schools. His parents sued McKinley High over the Slushie fiasco and moved. He's in Fort Wayne now, and he's also in their Glee club, Aural Intensity."

"Alright." John thinks a moment. "Well, H—my dad, he's running errands in Columbus, so no help there. I guess I'll just run home."

"Really," she smirks. "And I suppose you live out of town?"

"Actually, yes."

Quinn keeps a straight face, but John's face is quite convincing. "Are you serious?"

"I'm telling you the truth," John says in all sincerity, "Every day, I run four miles to school."

"You are not going to run home after this," she asserts firmly. Does he really want to run out into the middle of nowhere in the dark? "If your dad can't make it, I'll drive you home." An idea occurs to her. "Actually, if Mike's mom isn't there, why don't you two come over to my kitchen and do your homework there? That way, I don't have to play taxi."

"Your mom wouldn't mind?"

"My mom spends late nights at the office." And she would appreciate the company, she adds to herself. There have been so many nights when she's cooked for two, only to have one place at the table remain untouched after ten o'clock.

"You cook for yourself?" John asks, concern clouding his voice.

"What sort of housewife would I be if I couldn't cook by the time I was sixteen?" Quinn scoffs sarcastically. John looks a little surprised, so she puts in, "My father's opinion."

John pulls out his phone. "Okay, well I'll text Mike about our plan and see if his mom isn't in… But for now…" John tucks his phone back into his pocket, then lifts his camera and jiggles it. "Camera lesson please?"

While she goes over the rule of thirds, she can't help but notice that he's spending more time looking at her than the camera. Consequently, she spends more time looking at her camera than him—because if she looks up, she'll be looking into earnest blue eyes. She thinks she might be falling for him, and that frightens her.

She needs to protect herself from that hurt again. She needs somebody who won't collapse under the weight of her baggage. Until she finds that person, she's got to keep herself at a friendly distance.

"So I can't center my subject in my frame?"

Quinn shakes herself out of her thoughts. "It's not a concrete rule. It's just an exercise to get you to think about things differently." Wow. Random, applicable-on-so-many-different-levels life statement. "Different angles and positioning. It draws the viewer's eye to other objects in the frame as well, instead of being focused just on the one subject." She picks up her camera and stands. "Stay on the bleachers, but find a comfortable spot and spend a roll. That's 32 pictures."

John nods and gets to his feet. "32 pictures?" He lifts his camera, training it on her.

She looks away quickly, extending a hand to cover his lens. "We're too close for thirds," she admonishes. "And I don't want to make a fake face. Take a moment, catch me when I'm not looking."

John lowers the camera, smiling. "Natural beauty."

Quinn blushes and doesn't reply. _Gawd, what a goob. _ She walks to the other end of the bleachers. "Remember," she calls over her shoulder, "For the rule of thirds, your axes go horizontally as well as vertically."

She doesn't look at him for another twenty minutes. She shuts herself off into that little world that looks at everything in black and white, the one that sees images for what they are and sparks a little thrill in her as she brings up her camera to capture it. A hole in the branches between trees, revealing cars in the parking lot. The cheerleading pyramid in one corner of the shot, Sue Sylvester screaming silently through her loudspeaker in the opposite corner. The setting sun through the football goalposts. A small pile of cigarette butts accumulated in a corner of some concrete stairs, framed through the chain-link fence of the bleachers.

She turns towards the bleachers themselves, intending to shoot some images between the horizontal slats. Over on the other side of the bleachers, John whips around in the other direction suddenly, as if caught in the act of shooting her without her permission. She grins in amusement.

After half an hour, John approaches her, his camera in hand. Quinn looks at him quizzically. "Already finished?"

There's a mischievous glitter behind his eyes and a sly grin spreads across his face. "Yeah." He pulls his phone out of his pocket. "I got a text back from Mike. He's cool with the plan. And you're right. Your house, it is."

Quinn averts her eyes from his smiling face in favor of storing her camera in her bag and pulling out her car keys. "Then let's get going."

Mike doesn't even meet her eyes when he clambers into the backseat of her car. His backpack makes more noise than he does—a box of Tic Tacs, probably, rattling around every time she turns a corner. She and John make small talk to fill the silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see he's staring at her the entire drive over. He has a moderate sense of humor that occasionally shows itself as he keeps the conversation flowing, and she finds herself enjoying the ten minute drive from Lima Heights Adjacent to her house. After her father moved out and took the major source of income with him, Judy Fabray sold Quinn's childhood home for a profit and moved them into a smaller, much more manageable house close to the high school. The move also put her within a five-minute's walk to Mercedes' house.

She parks the car and pushes the front door open. "Mom?"

Again, nobody's home. Some dishes are piled in the sink. There's a note on the counter: _Another late night, Quinny. Lunch leftovers in the fridge. Love, Mom._

Sighing, she crumples the note as Mike and John wander in and sit down at the small kitchen table. Her cat comes out of hiding and curls around John's legs as John sits down; he reaches down and strokes her between the ears, eliciting a warm purr.

Mike still acts like a spooked animal around her. Last year, she almost literally ran the social ladder—a couple Slushies directed at him might have been direct orders from her. She might never know; Dave Karofsky and Azimio Adams often took enforcement into their own hands—they still do—and she didn't have control over their actions.

John wants to help her cook, but she wards him off with a spatula. "What's Mike going to do?" she quizzes, waving the spatula in Mike's general direction. "Besides, I can reheat spaghetti fine on my own."

It's only when John is occupied with his geometry homework that she finally allows herself to observe him. He isn't watching her now that he's puzzling over degrees and polygons and theorems. She finds herself drawn to his face even while pulling together ingredients for a white sauce. She remembers their first touch, when he shook her hand—a small wave of warmth that had washed through her body. She couldn't stop smiling as she walked away from that contact.

John flips his textbook around so Mike can see the problem he's pointing at. Mike explains the problem easily, and John returns to scribbling messily on his sheet of paper. Mike's actually very smart, Quinn acknowledges; but nobody has ever noticed. Mike is incredibly talented as well: he moves his body so naturally and lays down dance routines that regularly stun the Glee club. Either way, his qualities are largely overlooked because he's just so invisible.

Quinn finishes her white sauce with a sprinkle of oregano and pushes it off the heat. She pours a couple chopped vegetables into a frying pan with a dash of oil and shoves them around with her spatula. When the cooking transition is over, she allows herself to glance at John again.

John is different, she can tell. From the moment they shook hands, she's known deep down that John Smith is special He's distinctive, he's exceptional, he's just different. Maybe that's what she finds herself drawn to. He's very much unlike the closed-minded teenagers she's known her entire life living in small-town Lima, Ohio. John Smith might be a change.

But still—she repeats to herself as she looks back down at the cooking vegetables—she can't commit again. Not now. Not while her last two commitments hover around her at school, reminding her again and again of the mistakes she made.

She dumps the stir fried veggies in with the reheated spaghetti and mixes them together. When John grabs dinner plates from the cupboard (_How'd he know where they were?_), she doesn't protest, allowing him to help her portion out servings and drizzle white sauce over the food. Their hands cross while reaching for different objects. No happy, fuzzy feeling races up her arm from the contact point, but John laughs apologetically and she finds her face heating up at his happy expression as she laughs weakly along.

Neither of the boys prays before eating. She's always done so by habit, but she realizes she has no idea why. Her father always led their family through the motions of thanking somebody for providing the food. Then he chose his religion over his own daughter and then chose a tattooed freak over his religion. Her stomach growls as John and Mike dig in without abandon. She smiles to herself as they eat… like teenage boys, literally shoveling food into their mouths.

Maybe she could use some change. She's already changed her outlook on life; maybe this is the next baby step. She lifts her fork to her mouth.

* * *

_Monday – Week Three_

**Quinn Fabray**

Quinn isn't able to develop Thursday's photos until the school opens again on Monday.

When she finally steps into the darkroom early Monday morning, she's surprised to find two canisters of film in her bag—until she remembers she returned John's camera for him and kept his roll of film as well. She didn't mark them either. She had planned to develop hers first on her own time, and then, when John came in for class, develop his roll. It was highly probable that John would screw up the first couple prints, and Quinn would prefer that they be his own shots instead of hers.

Now she has no way of telling, and an hour to kill until classes start. She chooses the canister that looks the most like the one she put her roll in, though she really has no idea—the two canisters look exactly alike.

The first print is of herself.

Definitely not her roll.

The second print is also of herself, perched on the top bleacher with her camera held to her eye. Faithful to the rule of thirds, most of the space in the photo is occupied by empty bleachers and the football field. Still, she is obviously the main subject of the picture.

The third print is zoomed in on her profiled face while she holds the camera in her lap. She's staring straight ahead intently, her face scrutinizing some situation. Everything else in the shot is blurred.

In the next print, she is blurred and everything else is clear.

She's carelessly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in the fifth print.

She's losing her balance in the sixth, frozen limbs flailing.

Out of a sequence of four shots of the same image, the eighth is the only success: a football hangs suspended in the corner as a number 42—Puck—leaps in the air to intercept. Scattered players around him are never in the center of the shot.

The eleventh print is back to her, catching her in genuine moments. Casual motions, mundane gestures, different facial expressions as she evaluates her subjects or squints through the camera.

John has an amazing attention to detail, she'll give him that. Most of the pictures could stand on their own, each with a title, a story, an obvious emotion that emanates from it. Calm. Puzzled. Restful. Contemplative. Dissatisfied. Analytical. Independent. Critical. Disappointed. Exuberant. Alone. Lonely. Natural. Contented.

Out of 32 shots, 18 are of her.

Despite her personal inhibitions, she walks out of that darkroom feeling warm and fuzzy.

* * *

_Tuesday – Week Three_

**Artie Abrams**

After four days of pure, tortured hell, Artie finally took a breath yesterday.

The inrush of fresh air brought the tears back to his scoured eyeballs, but, with that life-giving oxygen, he's finally able to think again. No more wallowing in despair, looking for the empty spot in his mind that Tina Cohen-Chang was supposed to occupy. She's not going to come back to him if he just continues to sit around moping. Or if she does, it'll be out of pity, and he doesn't want her pity. He wants her undying love. He's going to win her back.

Within 24 hours of Monday morning, he had whipped together a number to present during Glee club's Tuesday meeting. Luke had seen the hope shining in Artie's eyes and put the extra effort in learning the entire routine Monday afternoon; Sunshine, Lauren, and Brittany agreed to background vocals.

He sets his eyes on Tina and launches into the fast-talking lyrics.

"_It's been a while since the two of us talked/ about a week since the day you walked./ Knowing things would never be the same/ with your empty heart and mine full of pain."_

He keeps his eyes on Tina. He tries to convey all his broken, longing emotion, but her eyes refuse to meet his. He swallows.

"_We were sitting with our backs against the world/ saying things that we thought but never heard/ Who would have thought it would end up like this?/ Where everything we talked about is gone/ and the only chance we have of moving on/ is try to take it back before it all went wrong." _

A rush of blood creeps up her neckline. She doesn't even have to look at him and he already knows what she's feeling: guilt, regret, and longing. They were two halves to a whole last year. They were going to date all through high school and community college and university and graduate and get married with two boys and two girls and a decent-sized house with a fenced front yard for the dog and an organic garden and treehouse in the backyard.

"_Before the worst, before we mend,/ before our hearts decide it's time to love again,/ Before too late, before too long,/ Let's try to take it back before it all went wrong."_

He and Tina had planned their entire life out, lying in the grass in the summer sunshine during that happy picnic. Tina's developed prints, the evidence of those memories, hang above his bed, proving to him that what they had—what they have—is real.

"_There was a time that we'd stay up all night,/ Best friends talking till the daylight,/ Took the joys alongside the pain/ with not much to lose, but so much to gain."_

She's still not looking at him, and he realizes he's been wheeling himself closer to her. He knows that if she looks up and makes eye contact with him, all their happy memories will come flooding back into her. He modifies the lyrics slightly to prime those memories.

"_Are you __hearing me? Cause I don't wanna miss,/ set you adrift on memory bliss,/ Twas a summer's day, your dress was white,/ I was down on one knee and you were mine for life./ We were thinking we would never be apart/ with your name tattooed across my heart."_

He's close enough to tell that her eyes are filling with tears.

"_Who would have thought it would end up like this?/ Where everything we talked about is gone/ and the only chance we have of moving on/ is try to take it back before it all went wrong./ Before the worst, before we mend,/ before our hearts decide it's time to love again,/ Before too late, before too long,/ Let's try to take it back before it all went wrong."_

He's not going let her slip away so easily. She's broken up with him, but he's going to fight to win her back, and he's not going to break down into a pathetic sniveling child. He's going to show her that he is her first and only.

"_If the clouds don't clear/ then we'll rise above it, we'll rise above it./ Heaven's gate is so near./ Come walk with me through/ just like we use to, just like we use to."_

Tina finally looks up at him, black mascara trails making their way down her cheeks. She is so beautiful, and he doesn't want to lose her. But, through the almost psychic connection they've made purely through eye contact, his plan fails: instead of him flooding her with their happy memories together, he feels the onslaught of turbulent emotions that she overwhelms him with. Regret, guilt, and longing, yes; those emotions he had correctly picked up on. But now that she's looking straight into him, deeper emotions are conveyed: a jagged scar left by his negligence, a wound which he couldn't close because he tore it open in the first place. Bitterness because of he didn't seem to care. Anger at his inadvertent but repeated rejection, absolute sorrow following close afterwards. And finally, a tenacious strength that he rarely saw in her.

"_Before the worst, before we mend/ before our hearts decide it's time to love again,/ Before too late, before too long,/ Let's try to take it back before it all went wrong."_

But these last words fall dry from his lips. Tina is resisting. She knows just as well as he does that he's going to have to bring a lot more to the table to win her back. She needs to know that he will put everything down, even his Top Ten in the Country title, to prove to her that he loves her. She is testing him to see if he has what it takes to commit.

And for all his internal speeches of bravado, for once Artie's unsure if he will win her back.

* * *

_Thursday – Week Three_

**Mike Chang**

This is the third time out of the past seven days he, Quinn, and John have had dinner together. Mike appreciates the company. He really does. But he's beginning to suspect there are other reasons. Mainly, the fact that John keeps stealing peeks at Quinn in the kitchen, sometimes even while asking Mike about a geometry or a spelling question. Or that every once in a while, Quinn will look over casually at John before looking back down at her cooking. And if they make eye contact, they'll both immediately look down and blush.

He considers telling them to skip the awkward turtle dance and get on with it, but he's still slightly skittish around Quinn. She has been in a place of power for most of the time he's known her, and he's always been at the bottom. Old habits die hard.

But Quinn is a different person this year. Or maybe she was that person all along, and she just hid it behind an icy mask to rise into power. He also knows that she's still injured from her past relationships and hesitant to jump into a new one, so he sits back and tolerates the awkward position he's been placed in between two confused teenagers.

Not that he minds; he's discovering that sometimes, awkward company is better than none at all. At the very least, it's better than an empty house that smells of lingering sorrow and forgotten promises. After two years, his mom hasn't been able to pull herself together—sometimes cleaning the house obsessively and shopping frivolously, most of the time trashing the bedroom his father once slept in and drowning in alcohol. He takes care of her almost as much as he cares for himself.

Quinn's cat is currently latched onto John's leg, and John moves slowly in favor of not disturbing the contented kitty. "Hey Mike?"

Mike looks up, but John isn't showing him a textbook. "Yeah?"

"Are you planning on going to the fair next weekend?"

Mike nods. "The Glee club has a performance at the park Saturday afternoon, at two o'clock."

"John, you're going to be there, right?" Quinn chimes in.

John grins. "To watch two of my friends sway in the background and look pretty? I definitely wouldn't miss it."

"Actually," Quinn contends, "Mike and Britt will be popping and locking right up front for Cascada. And Tina and I are backing Sunshine in another number."

"Which is?"

Quinn presses her lips together stubbornly. "It's a secret. We can't go giving the entire performance away."

John moves as if he's going to make her. The cat yowls in protest, and he settles back down. "Really?"

"It's true," Mike confirms quickly. "You're going to have to come and find out for yourself."

John turns to Quinn, who's looking down at the table, as if composing herself. When she looks up again, she's distanced herself. The sudden element of gravity in what just was a light conversation brings them to an uncomfortable pause, but John proceed.s, "So, have you compiled the photography portfolio due tomorrow? I'm sorry about ruining some of your prints."

Quinn flushes. "That's fine," she mumbles. "I can always make more."

Silence blankets the next few minutes as each scratches lead into their homework. Mike glances up occasionally to observe his friends. A funny word, ill-used by his tongue. Friends. Or friend. He doesn't know where Quinn stands in regard to him, but she's friendly.

Mike glances at the clock. It's almost eight. He doesn't know where his mom is. The Rutherfords are probably having dinner now—they've always eaten rather late. He considers calling Matt again tonight, but he doesn't want to come across as needy. Maybe he'll just post on Matt's Facebook wall.

The front door suddenly opens. All three teenagers jump in surprise when a woman's voice calls out, "Hello, Quinny! I'm—"

Judy Fabray stops suddenly as she spots the two foreigners in her house. Quinn leaps up quickly. "Hi Mom! Did you finish all your work? Um, this is Mike Chang and John Smith."

"You sold us our house," John adds, getting up and offering his hand.

Mrs. Fabray smiles politely and returns the handshake. "Don't let me disrupt your studying," she says courteously. "I wasn't expecting Quinn to have friends over! Have you three eaten—"

"There are leftover mashed potatoes on the stove," Quinn says. "And steamed broccoli and carrots."

Mrs. Fabray blushes. "Oh, thanks honey; I've already eaten. It's been a long day, I'll just be in the bedroom."

"Alright, Mom," Quinn says absentmindedly. Mother and daughter do not talk for the next five minutes while Mrs. Fabray stores leftovers; Quinn chews on the end of her pencil and stares at her homework. Mike frowns; with Quinn's personality, Mike's surprised at her familial detachment—though perhaps she's still bitter about last year.

There's a knock on the door when Mrs. Fabray disappears upstairs. Quinn answers the door and returns a moment later, holding a large envelope in her hand.

"Who was it?" John asks.

Quinn shakes her head. "There wasn't anybody there," she shrugs. "This was on the doorstep though. For you."

The envelope is unsealed and JOHN SMITH is written on the front in big block letters. There are only two sheets of paper inside that John pulls out; the front page reads JOHN SMITH: CONFIDENTIAL.

Mike smirks, and Quinn lets out a drawn out "Oooooo… What's that?"

John laughs and leans backwards, holding the sheets out of their sight before glancing at the second sheet. His mirthful face disappears suddenly, and his eyebrows knit together in confusion and… fright? When John leans forward to shove the papers back into the envelope, Mike catches a glimpse of the words—just four words in the form of a question, in the middle of the paper.

_ARE YOU NUMBER FOUR?_

"Is something wrong?" Quinn asks in concern.

"I… I need to go home," John answers quickly. He packs up quickly, just shoving papers into his backpack.

Quinn bites her lip anxiously. "I'll drive you back."

John shakes his head. "It's okay, I'll just walk."

"What?" Mike exclaims in disbelief. "Don't you live out of town?"

"My dad is down shopping at Safeway," John says convincingly, hoisting his backpack on his shoulder and stalking towards the front of the house. "I'll just run over there." Mike would be convinced, except he's spent enough time observing interpersonal relations as well as watching over his bipolar mother that he can read body language.

He and Quinn follow John to the front door. John opens the door, but before he steps out, Quinn lays her hand over his, still on the doorknob. They make eye contact, and Quinn expresses softly, "Thanks for hanging out tonight."

John's distraction dissipates when he hears her words, and he focuses on her face. "I wouldn't miss the opportunity." And then he's sauntering down the sidewalk.

There's an awkward silence between Mike and Quinn, now that their friend bridge is gone; Mike's just a friend of a friend, and he doesn't know what to say to her. But, as Quinn drives him home in silence, he can't help but contemplate John's sudden departure. He can tell that John is hiding something, and it's linked to those sheets of paper.

What does Number Four mean?

* * *

**Side Flings and ****Homages**:

_Artie's song:  
_"Before the Worst" by The Script

_A/N: Sorry for the slow update; the login page on Fanfiction was disabled over the weekend, but I've had this chapter sitting on my laptop since Friday!_


	8. Changing

_Week Three – Friday_

**Tina Cohen-Chang**

She dimly remembers somebody telling her last week, when she'd first broken up with Artie, that she should talk about her problems with somebody else. _A burden shared is a burden halved_, the voice reminds her.

Bull.

She'd cried into her poetry books extensively, even written her best works under that crushing emotion. She had an awkward conversation with her mother and another less awkward conversation with Mercedes, but still awkward.

The problem is, she still loves Artie. They were halves of a whole last year, and, even though they had drifted apart over the summer, it still took everything she had to break their relationship officially. Mercedes told her that excellence was often accomplished alone and a lot of other stuff about independent women achieving their best when not attached, but Tina hardly listened to any of it. It didn't make her feel any better, and it didn't alleviate any of the frustrations and struggles she battled with inside.

What really helps her feel better about her internal conflicts is beating the crap out of punching bags.

Yes, Tina Cohen-Chang is a certified fourth-degree black belt martial artist.

Giving her struggles a material manifestation and then proceeding to systematically break it down allows Tina to think more clearly about the matter at hand. She shadowboxes, uses brute force to smash the punching bag's innards into goop, deflects imaginary blows and redirects them against her opponent, mixes and combines different kata in order to approach things from a different angle, and lands multiple small, weak blows that together will topple even the largest challenge. As she runs through her self-disciplinary motions, she relates them back to her current situation.

No, she is not beating up Artie. Never. She is crushing her weak self that wants to jump back into Artie's arms and hide in his temporary sanctuary. Each blow allows her to step back and convince herself that holding out on him is the best course of action. He's got to show that he loves her. And if somebody else comes along who might be more qualified, maybe she'll let him in. She doesn't have Artie's ball and chain strapped to her ankle now. She's free.

The punching bag sways, its huge bulk moving back and forth. Instead of landing blows while it retreats, Tina meets it head on, her heel sweeping up and outwards, then digging sharply into the approaching, unyielding surface as she executes a lethal axe kick. The punching bag doesn't yield, but neither does she. For a moment, both are stuck in equilibrium, equal forces opposing each other.

But the hanging punching bag is designed for hormonal teenage boys who weigh twice as much as she does and have considerably more punching power. The bag doesn't give, and its momentum doesn't switch directions in time to prevent her from losing her balance. Stuck with one leg in the air, Tina hops backwards on her one foot, only to trip over her discarded lace jacket.

Hands support her before she can topple, and she turns around to find Mike Chang. He's still got his school clothes on and his backpack is slung over his shoulder.

"What are you still doing here?" Tina asks, glancing at the clock. It's five; Glee ended an hour ago.

"Waiting for my mom," Mike shrugs. "She wanted me to wait for her."

"Oh." Tina doesn't know that much about him, but she's heard that Mike's mom isn't particularly sane.

Mike drops his backpack to the floor, giving her a cautious once-over. She doesn't mind; she knows that she hasn't dressed this way since middle school P.E.: simply shorts and a T-shirt with a sports bra underneath. Her hair is tied up in an efficient ponytail and her face is free of makeup and flushed with exercise. She's definitely presenting a different image here, one hardly seen. "Black belt?" he asks softly.

Tina nods once, her hands on her hips. She wasn't aware of her fatigue until she stopped moving. The blood is rushing to her face, making her feel dizzy. She hasn't practiced in an incredibly long time.

"Have you heard of Capoeira?" Mike says, fidgeting. He's clearly nervous.

Tina shakes her head, catching her breath.

Mike's voice takes on an edge of excitement, and his face brightens as he begins talking about something he's knowledgeable about. "It's like martial arts and dance, in one. A lot of leg sweeps, elbow strikes, aerobatics, ducks and rolls, and power kicks." He pauses, as if contemplating his next sentence. "Kicks like that killer axe kick you just used." For the first time in their conversation, Mike's face is rather animated, showing much more emotion than he's ever shown in class. He begins unbuttoning his plaid shirt, revealing a plain T shirt underneath. "Lemme show you."

Tina leans back against the punching bag, searching her memories. She's known Mike since elementary, and the Asian community even in Lima, despite being composed of only five families and a lot of elderly people, was still very tightly knit. Hence, she and Mike took the same beginning martial arts class (and the same piano, violin, and voice lessons, the same after-school math sessions, the same everything). However, they avoided each other like the plague when playground rumors whispered that they were arranged to be married when Mike turned 13. "Did you take martial arts?" she questions.

"I stopped after second grade," Mike explains, shedding his skinny jeans to reveal shorts underneath. His words flow easier now that he's in his comfort zone. "I won't ask why you're fighting alone so late, but personally, I like it a lot more when I can actually spar with somebody."

Tina cocks an eyebrow as Mike crouches extremely low to the ground, muscles tensed in his wiry arms. "You want to spar… with me?"

"Not exactly," he says, his voice dropping back to a shy level. "You'll have to go easy on me, but most of the moves are choreographed." He regains strength as he returns to talking about capoeira. "The choreography are like kata. We start with the basics and build up from there: add a kick here, learn to block there, speed up the process until we're dancing in sync."

"Dancing?" Tina echoes. "No offense, but the reason I'm here is to beat the shit out of that punching bag. Not dance with you."

"And no offense to you either, but how does thumping the stuffing out of that punching bag going to help you think?" And then Mike stops suddenly, as if he's said too much.

Tina's surprised too, though she regains her bearings quickly. Mike has always been a perceptive person, and definitely able to communicate what's on his mind. She just remembers that he was the one who told her last week to talk to somebody. _A burden shared is a burden halved. _"No, keep on going. How will fighting with you be better than kicking with the punching bag?"

Mike hesitates, but Tina waits expectantly for his answer, a not unkind expression on her face. He continues. "Well, I assume that you're here because it helps you clear your mind. I move when I want to think about something, or if I just don't want to think at all; either way, falling into that comfort zone allows me to think straight." Mike looks to her, and her slight nod of affirmation enables him to carry on. "Maybe you're channeling your challenges into the punching bag, but the thing is, the punching bag doesn't change. It's just a weighted bag that swings back and forth when you hit it; it doesn't react. So kicking its ass is a definite stress-reliever, but your problems are still the same before and after you lay into them.

"Dancing, on the other hand, with another person, is all about action and reaction. It's dynamic and so are your challenges. I'll respond to you and you'll respond to that because you were expecting it. When you get better at acting and reacting, so much that you'll just be able to just _dance_ with me, then you'll be able to think about your problems in an entirely different light." He's crouching on the ground, wrists protecting his face, elbows pointing out to the sides, and his legs wide in a solid stance.

Tina crouches down next to him, willing to try. She's never seen this Mike before, and it's likely that he hasn't seen this side of her for a while. It's different. It's a change.

She might be ready for a change.

* * *

_Week Four – Monday_

**Noah Puckerman**

He definitely saw somebody this time.

It's seven twenty in the morning, and the Puckzilla is ready to build his muscle mass, starting with the tub of protein shake powder stolen from Sylvester's office and hidden in the back corner of the weight room. Puck has been meeting John regularly at this time to work out, though they arrive at separate times. Finn never wakes up this early, and what he doesn't know will never hurt him. Besides, John is an incredible work out partner, with a great deal of endurance and raw strength as well as a high pain tolerance; John's perfect performance pushes Puck to work himself harder than ever, and the ladies have certainly noticed.

But his mind isn't on his bulging muscles now. He knows that somebody is watching him, but every time he does the double take, whatever he glimpsed is no longer there. Whomever. That girl he saw the first time he met John—black leather, a smoldering look of intensity, ripples of long chestnut hair, and an aggressive aura.

He can't get her out of his mind. It had only been a two second-long glance, but Puck still remembers her image vividly. Every detail, down to his guesstimate of her bra size. He didn't know what to call her at the time, but his subconscious eventually dubbed her the Punisher.

Puck hasn't seen the Punisher since that first fateful day. Still, sometimes his sixth sense tingles and his cherry picker jerks in her direction and he thinks he might have caught yet another glimpse of his elusive sex goddess. A whip of dark hair around a building corner. A glint of sunlight in the air. A set of eyes boring into his back, even when nobody appears to be nearby.

He has that feeling now, even when the parking lot is completely devoid of cars. Nobody's here yet, probably not even John. So why is he so sure that there's somebody watching him?

"Hello?" he calls out. Silence follows afterwards, but he feels strongly that there is a babe and a half within close proximity. "I know you're there. You've been watching me for a while, which isn't creepy at all—actually, it's pretty hot."

Of course, nothing happens. But his cherry picker is still twitching excitedly, and his cherry picker has never failed in leading him to the best girls. He begins walking forward, not knowing where he's going. He figures he'll just follow the trail to one of the gigantic oak trees lining the street; after all, it's not like the Punisher is invisible, right?

"There's nothing wrong with being shy," Puck purrs, following his instinct. "I can cut class, no problem. I've taken impromptu field trips all the time, baby. You see, the Puckasaurus has quite the reputation here in Lima Heights, and they all know how I roll." He walks out of the parking lot, across the street towards a line of large trees in front of some shops. "So now that you know a little about me, why don't you show me how you do what you do."

A twig snaps in front of him, and a flash of dark clothing flickers in front of a store window. Puck breaks into a run, rounds the corner of the building, and spots her retreating back. Billowing brown hair, completely clad in leather, knee high boots, sprinting away from him with long strides—it activates his predator… erm, stalking… uh, tracker instinct, and he races after her.

"Wait!" he yells, gaining on her. "You haven't even introduced yourself! At least tell me your name!" Not that the Punisher isn't a badass name, but it'd be nice to fantasize about her sometimes as a vulnerable human being and not an invincible sex goddess.

She swerves around a corner into an alley, and he follows her in quick pursuit. A brief thought flits through his mind, but he quashes it down. He is not going to rape her; first of all, she appears to be even more badass than Lauren, who hasn't even let him touch her boobs on the threat that she'd throw him out the nearest window. Secondly, he likes to think he's not that shallow; he upholds his personal rule to hold a decent conversation with the girl for at least thirty minutes before he took her. Unless she initiated it first, in which case he'd do whatever the hell he wanted.

The Punisher running away from him did not scream TAKE ME, so he's just going to talk to her. Get to know her better. Seduce her. Whatever. But he needs to catch her first. Even if it means following her into a dark alleyway.

Despite being only forty feet behind her, when he turns the corner into the wet alleyway, he can't see her. Desperate, Puck jogs all the way to the end… to the locking dock of a convenience store—a dead end. There is no way she could have gotten past him; there is no fire escape above to escape onto the roofs, and the doors to the store are locked.

Somehow, the Punisher has vanished into thin air.

"Who are you?" Puck roars one last time, alone in the back of an alleyway somewhere in downtown Lima downtown.

"Rachel Berry," the voice of a goddess whispers in his ear. A knuckle rams into his temple, and he sees nothing.

* * *

**Brittany Pierce**

Santana brought a bag of powdered sugar to school today, and though she vehemently denied Brittany's request to sprinkle some on Brittany's breakfast muffin, Santana eventually caved when Brittany applied the puppy eyes.

Santana could never resist the puppy eyes.

The powdered sugar was a bit off-white and tasted like kitchen floor (personal experience), but Finn erupted into laughter when he saw the decorated muffin and she finished the entire thing in a single mouthful to garner more praise.

Now she's sitting in Glee club eight hours later, admiring the glassy fireworks shattering behind Mr. Schue's head. His voice is drowned out by the farm animal sounds that accompany every colorful explosion.

Nobody else seems to be fazed by the spectacular show, though Brittany zeroes in on the people who aren't paying attention to Schue.

Santana excuses herself to go to the bathroom, but Brittany knows that she's really going to use her powdered sugar to haggle favors from some football players stuck in detention—and that means another lonely night for Brittany.

Finn looks pointedly at Quinn. Quinn is looking down into her lap, her face contorted into an intense _I-am-thinking-stop-staring-at-me_ expression. Brittany knows that face very well.

Sunshine's eyes are glued on Mr. Schuester, except for when she's taking color coded notes.

Lauren's scowling deeply. Puck's not here, which probably means he's out wooing some other lady and Lauren has to beat some sense into him.

Kurt psychically shares information with Mercedes. Brittany possesses a sixth sense and can also hear their unspoken conversation concerning Tina's wellbeing. Many thoughts discuss the invisible chemistry brewing between her and Mike.

Even Brittany can't miss the occasional glances between Tina and Mike. Nothing special is going on, but they're looking at each other more than anybody else.

And Artie, who has just put two and two together. His face is pained. Brittany's heart goes out to him.

She makes out one shouted word: "Duets!"

The sonic blast combined with the firework show dazes her and she shakes her head to regain her hearing.

Her hearing is back to normal, but the world keeps tilting back and forth dangerously. Immediately, she imagines Artie careening around the choir room in an out-of-control wheelchair. She springs from her chair clumsily—everybody is moving through the room as well, grabbing onto other people, but her thoughts are only of the paraplegic in imminent danger.

Santana shouts her name, but Brittany finally collapses into Artie's lap and holds him tightly. "Don't," she mumbles, looking up into his face. His glasses are askew and his shirt smells like it hasn't been washed in forever, but there is color and life returning to his face and it makes her so happy.

"B-b-britt-brittany?"

She puts a finger to his lips and giggles. "Stutters are only for Asian vampires."

* * *

_Week Four – Tuesday_

**Santana Lopez**

Bitches. Sitting in the middle of the choir room during Glee club, Santana can feel the slurry of relationships swirling around her as she tries to comprehend Schuester's pep talk on walls of sound. And of course, Schuester is completely oblivious. And so is Sunshine.

Cohen-Loser and Wheels: The weird couple finally broke up, go figure. What makes it unforgettable is that they still love each other. Self-imposed exile and all by Cohen-Loser, causing Wheels to roll forlornly after her in any attempt to get her back. Or maybe not…

Other Asian and Cohen-Loser: why not? Stick the only two Asians together and have them pop out dozens of more Asian babies to populate an already oddly ethnically-diverse Ohio hick town. And there they go, fulfilling elementary rumors of their arranged marriage when they come of age. Damn junior high gooey eyes that Cohen-Loser keeps sending Other Asian's way.

Wheels and Britt-Britt: In the absence of Cohen-Loser, Stubbles McCripplepants suddenly has eyes for her Britt-Britt. Despite Santana's burning fury, there's a heaven out there that prevents her from permanently disabling the boy. Even if he is already maimed emotionally and physically. Even if Britt latched onto him with the innocent and oblivious intent of somehow fixing him. Santana's going to have a hard time talking Britt-Britt out of this one. Still, it can't be as difficult as the time when Britt tried to free the little blue men working in the school's ventilation system.

Britt-Britt and herself: No, nothing there. All their sweet lady kisses are completely unrelated to the tugging feeling in her gut that she constantly crushes under an avalanche of BITCH.

Herself and Puckzilla: They're like Bonobo monkeys, or cold-blooded salamanders. He throws his wang around all the time, but at the end of the day, she's the one who milks it for all it's worth and he knows it. That's what they've always been, the pseudo-couple since junior high.

Tubbers and Puckzilla: When he suddenly switched gears at the beginning of the year to date Tubbers, Santana felt like she'd been punched in the gut. Hadn't she known him intimately since seventh grade? Though she has to admit, the white-bellied pygmy hippopotamus has even more swag than she does. Or, at least, she played it to a different tune, and Puck found it alluring. Santana briefly considers altering her usual custom of "drop-your-pants-now"; after all, Tubber's hard-to-get panned out into a long-term relationship, right?

Fuck it, she has more boys under her thumb than she has gallons of awesomeness.

Puckzilla and Barbie: Did Puck completely forget he spawned a baby last year? In contrast to his absolute lack of concern, Quinn's still dealing with personal issues, and the incessant attentions of a particularly stubborn somebody won't let her move on.

Finnster and Barbie: He's got a one-track mind, and it's been barreling towards Quinn for almost six months now without signs of a break. He's the one guy in the school that Santana can't get her paws on, and she considers him her greatest challenge. Ironically, out of all of them, he's been the most faithful to his interest, even if Barbie's being a total prude-slut.

Barbie and Superfly: Yes, Santana knows that pretty hunk of shy new guy is sitting outside, waiting on his next photography lesson (yeah right). As if he couldn't make his attraction anymore obvious… but Quinn's been emotionally scarred, blah blah blah. Cry me a river, build a bridge, and get over it. Stop waiting around for Prince Charming—get off your ass and look for him, get in his face and leave him if he doesn't stand up.

Well damn, Santana realizes that's what made her into a maneater.

Porcelain and Barbie: Kurt's got his Bitch Face on whenever he's around Quinn. They used to be pretty good friends, but Barbie has been spending less time with him and Mercedes and more time with Superfly.

Aretha-Diva and Porcelain: The hell is going on with their psychic connection or whatever? They communicate via hand signals and wild facial expressions and pointed looks. They usually function as one unit, but this time, Mercedes's got beef and Kurt's being a bitch.

Porcelain and Superfly: They don't have a lot of contact together, but Santana's sensitivity to drama is so acute that she can pick up on Kurt's change in attitude whenever he's around John. He gets super flirty and blushes like a fucking schoolgirl whenever Superfly's somewhere close by. As far as Santana knows, though, Superfly is completely asexual except when Barbie is around.

Other Asian and Barbie: Mike happens to be pretty tight with John and so he's just along for the ride when John does his bonding shit with Barbie; but Other Asian is now more comfortable around Barbie a.k.a ex-Ice Queen, to the point where he actually talks in class (in addition to busting sweet moves that rival Britt-Britt's).

Wheels and Other Asian: And back around, full circle, to Wheels eyeing Other Asian aggressively as Other Asian once again makes eye contact with Cohen-Loser at the moment the bell rings. They rise as one and leave the room together, and Wheels' face grows anguished and pale, followed by dark and stormy.

"Remember this weekend!" Schuester shouts the Gleeks pick up their bags. "We've got three numbers on Saturday, all of them potential attention catchers that reach beyond just high school. We're going to let Lima know about the New Directions, so be sure you've got your lyrics and dance steps down—Sunshine, Mercedes, Brittany, Mike." He gives curt nods to each.

Britt-Britt's bright face leaps into Santana's vision. Santana resists, but the other effervescent cheerleader forces Santana's clenched fist open and curls their pinkies together. "San," she squeals. "I was wondering: how fast would Artie go on roller coaster tracks, with me sitting in his lap? That would be soooo hot."

Santana smiles fondly and bumps shoulders with her bestie as they walk out of the room. "Sounds brilliant, Britt-Britt," she grins. Britts beams back happily, then shoots a glance over her shoulder at what Santana suspects is Wheels. A possessive jealousy rears its head in Santana's chest, and she yanks lightly on their intertwined pinkies. Unwilling to break their link, Britts follows obediently. "You've got your routine down for the weekend?"

"You're doing it too," Brittany insists, but Santana shakes her head.

"It's just you and Mike," she chides gently. "How could I fit in?"

"I'm sure we would make it work," Brittany maintains adamantly. "You're the best at arranging threesomes anyways. Remember that time when you, me, and the Puckasaurus—"

Santana hushes her frantically as Lauren snorts loudly behind them. If there's one thing Santana respects (emphasis on respect; definitely not fear, not at all…) about Zizes, it's her territory. When Santana picked her bone with Zizes at the beginning of the year, a catfight ensued—one that she did not win, for once. Rather, she made a tactical retreat, sliding across the recently waxed floor on her back.

Lauren was badass, but Santana made sure to maintain her title as McKinley High's Queen Bitch.

Only when they duck into the girls' locker room does Santana reply, "Partner dancing isn't quite the same."

Brittany's eyebrows crinkle in confusion. "Sure it is. Dancing and sex are just the same repetitive motions, except you add a lot of extra stuff on top to make it more interesting. Just let your inhibitions go and do what comes naturally."

Santana bursts into laughter as they open their lockers, stuffing backpacks in and pulling out duffel bags. "Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that blonde head of yours."

Brittany continues to press her point, which is unusual for the dim-witted airhead. "I mean it; I really want to dance with you. Not Mike."

"Well, if you really believe—" Santana is abruptly cut off when Brittany leans forward and locks lips with her softly. Conscious thought flees momentarily as Brittany pushes Santana into her open locker, adding an assertive edge to the soft lady kiss.

Then conscious thought comes crashing back down, and Santana roughly pushes Brittany away. "Not here," she hisses, but she can feel hot blood rising to her cheeks and it's not because of embarrassment. Because of Glee club, they've been consistently late to Cheerio practice, and the locker room is usually deserted when they arrive. Still, she can't be too cautious.

Brittany doesn't look hurt at all as she backs away, licking her lips. "Please dance with me Saturday?"

Santana slams her locker and slings her duffel bag over her shoulder. "We're late for practice," she says testily, heading for the door. "And you should have asked Mike first."

"I'll go do that!" Brittany responses optimistically, and, before Santana can stop her, Britts has run out of the locker room, back into the school.

Sylvester's magnified screeching echoes from the fields, and Santana has no choice but to leave Brittany to her own devices.

* * *

**Noah Puckerman**

He's either swimming in molasses or he gained a thousand pounds and doesn't have the sufficient muscle mass to even move his arms. He realizes a couple seconds later that his hands are tied above his head, keeping him in an upright position.

He doesn't remember drinking, but that's the only explanation he can come up with. That, or the chick he was chasing injected him with something. He feels just peachy. Despite being trussed up in what appears to be a moldy, skanky apartment complete with a boarded-up window, Puck's mental capacity is incredibly sluggish and he can't muster up the energy to process information. Creepy rape apartment? Drugged up and hanging from the ceiling? Unable to move or even perform higher, logical thinking? No biggie. He should just sleep it all off and ponder his circumstances later.

His plan is abruptly interrupted by a painful flash of light in his eyes that washes everything into dancing spots. Somebody's standing in front of him. The words roll off his tongue and he can't even swallow them back down. "Kinky."

A pause, and the Punisher's voice cuts into him, clear and sharp. "Who are you?"

"Whaddya goin' do to me?" Puck slurs. "We usually play my games… but I guess we can play by your rules this time."

A hiss of disgust from her. Who? He struggles with thought. Puni… Puh… Buh… Berry? "What does the man whom you meet with every morning call himself by?" Berry demands.

"Berry," he sniggers. "Exotic."

That earns him a swift kick to the 'nads—but whatever she pricked him with delays his neural responses as well, and it's a second or two before he crumples, whining.

"Note to self," she mutters softly, but Puck overhears through his haze of pain. "Serum inhibits higher functioning in addition to loosening tongues."

When his whimpers subside, she whirls back onto him. "Answer the question," she growls. "The boy you meet with every morning: what is his name?"

"John Smith."

"How original," she murmurs to herself again. "Who is he? Where did he come from?"

"If you wanted to fuck him, why'd you kidnap me?" Puck blurts.

Pain blossoms from her right hook to his tender stomach. Puck realizes that Berry is much shorter than he is, even if he is suspended an inch above the ground.

"I am not here to engage in sexual activities with either of you," Berry snaps, and her tightly controlled voice slips at the end of her statement to allow a shrill note. She takes a moment to recompose herself, then continues calmly, "Just answer the question, and I promise I won't incapacitate you. Who is John Smith?"

"I dunno," he mutters darkly. "Is he a terrorist or sumthin'? He transferred here from New Mexico. Has a dog. Crushing on Quinn."

"How is this Quinn relevant to John?"

"No, I'm serious," Puck grunts. His mind is on a roll, following a mental connect-the-dots that, in his right state of mind, he would have simply overlooked. "He… really, really likes Quinn. Like, I've been all up and in every girl's grill from here to Cleveland and I've never seen how committed—"

Her uppercut slams his jaw shut, and thankfully he doesn't bite off his tongue. The mental trail he was treading along dissolves. "Shut… up," Berry snarls. "I am getting dangerously close to hurting you again."

"Violent. Short, but violent. Angry sex. Mmmm."

"Any last words? If they happen to be about a particular John Smith, I might not castrate you."

The words tumble out of Puck's mouth. "Uh, weird shit happened the first day he got here. Nobody really remembers, but he ran into the photography darkroom and was waving flashlights around. He doesn't have the bulk but he's still really strong, doesn't ever get tired, runs to school every day with his dog, uh, he, um… my buddy doesn't like him too much, actually, he's planning on ambushing him this weekend in the woods at the—"

He's aware that she's moved around behind him, but her purpose is not revealed until she jabs him in the ass cheek with a needle. "The hell?" he mumbles. The lights in front of him blur as he swings from the ceiling. The tension in the rope he's hanging from disappears as Berry fiddles with something behind him, and he drops like a sack of potatoes.

The shock of crashing to the hard floor is numbed by a dull cold rolling through his torso. He struggles to stay conscious as Berry's figure looms over him, a needle held in her hand. Before he can slip into darkness, he feels the pressure of her legs straddling his haphazardly limp body, her lips on his cheek. "Sleep tight."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the late update! I've just finished up the finals for my spring semester... and now I'm taking summer classes, so a chapter every week will be pretty much impossible. **

**Nickname key:**

Cohen-Loser: _Tina Cohen-Chang  
_Wheels: _Artie Abrams  
_Other Asian: _Mike Chang  
_Britt-Britt: _Brittany Pierce  
Puckasaurus/Puckzilla: __Noah Puckerman  
_Tubbers: _Lauren Zizes  
_Finnster: _Finn Hudson  
_Barbie: _Quinn Fabray  
_Superfly: _John Smith  
_Porcelain: _Kurt Hummel  
_Aretha-Diva: _Mercedes_


	9. Hope

_Author's Note: __Ha, I accidentally uploaded a chapter from my Percy Jackson story Homeward Bound yesterday... whoops... thanks to **n2aabmmummy** for notifying me! Here's the actual chapter for All Roads Lead to Home!_

* * *

_Week Four – Tuesday_

**Brittany Pierce**

She doesn't really know where she's going—after all, San had told her to ask Mike, but never told her where Mike was. She remembers them leaving first, heading to the right of the choir room doorway… so that left maybe twenty classrooms to check. Of course they haven't gone home, because when a guy and a girl get together, they make out, right? It's all she's ever done, anyways.

She finds the boy in the wheelchair first, sitting in front of a classroom and peering in through the tall, thin window next to the doorway. She doesn't really know his name yet, but she grabs his handlebars and leans over his shoulder. "Watcha watching?"

Wheels (as San calls him) starts suddenly. "Brittany! Give a man a warning."

"About what?" She glances through the window and spots Mike and Tina, _not_ making Asian babies. In fact, they've pushed all the desks and chairs back to make a clearing in the middle of the room so they can fight, an observation that leaves Brittany sorely confused and slightly fascinated.

Mike handsprings to Tina's right and she reacts by cartwheeling to his right, resulting in a switch of position. Tina says something and Mike nods; then her legs are spinning over Mike's torso in a flying butterfly kick, and Mike drops and sweeps his legs underneath her. They exchange punches and blocks but they're not really fighting, moving along a steady pattern. Strike, defend, return, defend. Both are flushed with effort, their bodies close and acting and reacting to each other.

"It's not right," Four-eyes laments. "She's on the rebound. He shouldn't be taking advantage of her like this."

"Like what?" she returns, swiveling around to look at him. What's his name again? Up until two months ago, she thought he was a robot on wheels; now she knows that he's just a human being riding a robot on wheels.

Their faces are awfully close, but not-Wheels doesn't seem to notice, his eyes are so fixed on the scene inside. "Like… getting all close to her."

"What's wrong with that? You aren't with her anymore, right?" The sudden pain in his eyes tells Brittany that she might have said something wrong, but she plows on anyways. "It just means that there's more robot love to go around."

There are tears in his eyes suddenly, his face twisted in a kind of broken that Brittany doesn't see a lot. A lot of the guys who take her are confident and aggressive and forward, and she's the one that's helplessly drunk or needy or otherwise broken. Role reversal doesn't change anything; it's all she's ever known since junior high. He needs love, and she'll be the one to give it to him.

Tenderly, she steps around his wheelchair so that's she's straddling his thin legs. With a hand on each armrest, she pins him in, leans down towards his face, and kisses him. He doesn't protest, but he doesn't respond either.

After about five seconds of pushing against his unresponsive lips, she pulls back, confused. Not-Wheels looks terrified. "What was that for?"

"You looked sad," she says simply. "Doesn't that make you feel better?"

Not-Wheels looks back into the classroom, where Mike and Tina are still fighting-dancing-getting-physical. Then he looks back at Brittany, then at Tina, then back at Brittany again. "It does," he breathes finally.

Within the next minute or two, Brittany deduces that Not-Wheels does not know how to kiss. She makes a mental note to teach him and possibly his robot on tongue exchange. Also, crying while kissing is a real mood-killer. She'll remind him about that later, when he's not actually silently sobbing.

Brittany breaks the kiss and backs away. "See you around," she whispers, discouraged at her lack of progress. If anything, Not-Wheels looks even more depressed. She decides that now would be a good time to switch gears and do what she originally came for. Ignoring Not-Wheels' gasp of surprise, Brittany opens the classroom door and steps inside.

Tina crescent-blocks Mike's jab, forcing his forearm into an awkward position; he remedies the twist by flipping into the air sideways, landing dangerously close to Brittany. She reacts in turn with a back walkover, her legs ramrod straight.

"Incredible," Mike compliments, clapping.

"Combat training and acrobatics by Mrs. Sylvester," Brittany explains offhandedly.

Tina spots Not-Wheels outside and asks Brittany with no-hostility-at-all, "What are you doing here?"

Brittany addresses Mike excitedly. "You guys should totally do that routine at the county fair!"

Mike raises an eyebrow. "But you and me already have that duet. By the way, did you want to rehearse that one more time?"

Brittany waves her hand dismissively. "Never mind that, you guys should do whatever you were doing just now during Sunshine's song and I'll do the routine with San for the main song."

Tina shakes her head. "We haven't been doing this to music, and we can't whip up something in two days. Besides, does Santana know about you wanting to dance with her?"

Mike waggles his eyebrows, and Brittany almost laughs. She likes dancing-Mike a lot more than classroom-Mike. "That routine is sort of risqué," he warns.

Brittany nods happily. "I know. That's why I want to do it with her. It's perfect." Mike and Tina share a look, which prompts Brittany to ask, "Do you guys have a psychic connection too?"

Mike shrugs. "Brittany, I don't know about Saturday. I think it's already too late, but why don't you ask Schuester?"

Brittany deflates, but Tina does look uncomfortable, so she leaves it at that. "Okay," she sighs. "Have fun snogging! Hey, by the way, what's Wheels' code name?"

"Wheels?" Mike echoes.

"Artie," Tina says, not-at-all-offended by Brittany's rude nickname calling of her ex.

Brittany's mind doesn't think about it very long before she's skipping down the hall to the locker room. Mrs. Sylvester is going to be mad; Brittany's at least fifteen minutes late for practice. But when she spots Santana waiting for her impatiently in front of the locker room door, she's not as scared anymore. "You waited for me!" she cries joyfully.

"You didn't give me a choice," Santana grumbles, but she links their pinkies together.

* * *

_Week Four – Wednesday_

**Lauren Zizes**

When she sees Puckerman in the halls that morning, her heart drops into her stomach and she almost throws up a little in her mouth.

Monday afternoon, she'd been hesitant, but by Tuesday, she knew she'd lost him. She'd held back too long and he'd grown tired to the chase, jumping to easier prey. Probably an experienced, ex-hot-tub-cleaning-customer cougar from the next town over.

Forget _probably_, it's _most likely_. The duration of their relationship had probably been Puck's driest period—six whole weeks without getting any. Though why he didn't he just grab Santana for a hot night in the Hotel Six down the street, Lauren doesn't know. Change of scenery?

God, why does she feel so horrible? She'd let him know from the beginning that she was the one girl who wasn't going to spread her legs for anybody, especially Lima's finest stallion. He played her game right and she finally let him to first base. The fact that he'd never forced the issue (though he spent almost every moment asking for the tiniest of favors, and she returned with threatening innuendos) convinced her that he was genuine.

He's heading straight for her. He's walking determinedly, his eyes set. She wants to turn around and ignore him. She wants to keep walking by. No, she wants to punch him in the face. She wants to clothesline him, arm bar him, break his kneecaps, and kick him down the stairs, all at once. She wants to scream at him in front of everybody. She wants to cry by herself.

But then they're standing face to face, and god, he looks… he dares to look goddamn _playful_.

"What the hell do you want," she says in monotone, resisting the urge to shatter his family jewels.

Instantly, he looks remorseful. Who knew he was such a good actor? It's probably how he has half the school hanging off him. "Baby, don't be like that—"

She settles on shoving him—just a little push that sends him back a couple steps. She steps forward after him, and he's backing up and she's advancing on him; totally a psychological intimidation thing, and it's working. "The hell should I be like then? Disappear for two whole days and not even tell me—"

"My mom," he squeezes out, standing his ground. She walks right up to him, toe to toe, and looks him in the eyes. "She got sick. I had to take care of her. And my little sis, Essie."

The shining emotion in his eyes does it for her, and she softens. "So you weren't fucking a leathered hussie-brunette in a skanky apartment the next town over?"

Puck's eyes sparkle as he slings an arm around her, and he kisses her temple. "You in leather, babe? I wish."

* * *

_Week Four – Friday_

**Kurt Hummel**

School gets out at noon to prepare for the all-town parade at 4pm. Kurt slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and pushes through the surging crowd of energetic high school students. Everybody's going somewhere; cheerleaders and jocks prepping for the hometown pride floats, the band assembling in the choir room, the A/V club running through last minute checks. He's looking for Mercedes so they can go to the auditorium together for the last rehearsal when a huge shoulder sends him crashing into a teacher. Scalding coffee spills onto his Marc Jacobs ascot and the exposed skin of his neck.

"Beat it, Hummel!" Karofsky snarls, emphasizing his point by putting his huge hands on Kurt's shoulders and shoving him into lockers. The teacher hurries on, completely unconcerned with the abuse going on behind her. Karofsky high-fives one of his cronies, who jeer at the frozen boy still stuck against the lockers. People whisper and giggle. At the end of Karofsky's pack, Lance shoots him a worried glance and pauses, conflicted; but popularity and status calls, and he moves on to catch up.

"Kurt! What happened?" Somebody dabs at his neck with a handkerchief, and Kurt hisses at the contact with his sensitive skin. Sunshine Corazon takes his hand and pulls his shocked figure through the uncaring student body to the nearest bathroom. There's a chair next to the sinks that Sunshine steers him to. Despite her short stature and normally reserved personality, when the current occupant of the chair, a Cheerio applying makeup, refuses to vacate, the tiny girl's true colors come flying out: a stubborn Asian hard-ass who brews the mother of all storms until the Cheerio leaves in disgrace.

The acerbic side of Kurt snorts in patronizing pride, but the majority of his body still shakes at the blatant ignorance that runs in McKinley's veins at an obvious bullying infestation. Hell, the teacher he'd been pushed into was more concerned about her sudden lack of coffee than the unfortunate student she'd dumped it on. Simpering faces laugh at him out of the corners of his memory; hoots, sneers, and titters echo from previous experiences. He remembers Lance, the jock who's so deep in the closet that he's finding Christmas presents, representing the majority of students who conform to the social pyramid.

Sunshine sits Kurt down in the chair, pulls off his stained ascot, and texts Mercedes at the same time. She pushes up her huge glasses and worriedly asks, "Are you okay?"

"Fine, thank you, Sunshine. And let me assure you that this doesn't usually happen in American high schools; you just happened to choose a particularly shitty—"

"AW HELL TO THE NAW," bellows a familiar voice from the entrance, and everybody looks up. "Who's been messing with my man Kurt?"

The sea of Cheerios part down the middle as Mercedes barges through, and, before Kurt can jump up and escape, he's got two concerned mother hens clucking over him. "No, really, it was just Karofsky—"

This sets Mercedes off, and she's mouthing off from the bathroom to the washing room in the janitor's closet for a bit of detergent and back to the bathroom and then through the less crowded halls, all the way to the auditorium where the rest of the Glee club is waiting in various degrees of anxiety. Tina and Quinn break away from the crowd to meet him coming down the aisle; Lauren and Artie are sympathetic from a distance; Finn looks conflicted; Brittany's off to the side, pouting about some other issue, and Santana has her hands full taking care of Brittany; Mr. Schuester has the dopey _well-it's-high-school_ look on.

"Are you alright, Kurt?" Mr. Schue asks the obligatory question.

"Just great," Kurt drawls, pushing his way past Quinn. "Really, I'm okay."

* * *

The previous conflict leaves Kurt unable to enjoy the parade. Afterimages are burnt into the backs of his eyelids, and every time he closes his eyes, he sees Karofsky's leering face shoving him into the lockers.

Coach Sylvester's extravagant Cheerio float rolls by, with Santana and Brittany in constant acrobatic motion on the first platform. It looks like Brittany _did_ get her partner dance in, even if they're confined to just six feet of floor. Music blasts from street side speakers as Cheerios spin and flip in sync, clumsier echoes of Brittany's moves up front. Sparkling glitter sprays from confetti cannons; pom-poms are in constant motion; a lot of leg and toned belly is shown; chants and cheers billow in the wake of the final third platform, the one with a gigantic poster of Sylvester's leering face erected for all of Lima, Ohio, to see.

On either side of him, Mercedes and Tina scream in excitement as the local radio station drives by, tossing candy at the throngs. It hurts his ears. He can't find anything that makes him want to stay here. All that Lima has to offer is parading past him and all he wants to do is get away from it. There isn't anything for him in Ohio, other than his dad. And maybe Mercedes and Quinn.

New York. That's where he's headed; that's where he's going to be. Screw Lima and all its losers; he's going to be who he is without fear of small-town minds, and he's going to make a name for himself on Broadway.

The football float passes by, with Finn perched on top with a winning smile. Dave and Azimio circle underneath along with the other pack members, grinning wolfishly and winking at girls.

He mutters a stupid excuse—bathroom or something—and pushes his way past the crowd, heading in the opposite direction of the parade. The pounding music blasting from the Cheerio float clashes with the band following up behind, creating a chaotic cesspool of noise that Kurt has to escape. He needs solace. A cup of hot chai tea at the only coffee shop on Main Street is what he needs.

Kurt ducks into the little area, and when the door swings shut, it's a different environment entirely. It's cozy and warm, contrasting to the chilly autumn temperatures outside. People are socializing at comfortable volume, generating a more ambient swirl of white noise. Chocolate and caramel scents drift in the air as Kurt orders.

With nobody else with him, Kurt settles at a little one person table. He just needs to clear his head; Mercedes won't mind. The soothing aroma of chai wafts up his nose, and he inhales deeply.

After a moment of simple relaxation, Kurt takes a look around. Right behind him, a group of teenagers he's never seen before are chatting amiably. Three guys and two girls in plain clothing—one of the guys, a blonde with incredibly long bangs, is clashing horribly, and he appears to be obliviously unaware of it. In fact, he's arguing with one of the girls about it.

"Who says I can't wear my Abercrombie polo with the collar popped?" he asks the redhead teasingly.

She snaps back, " 'Cause it makes you look like a preppy douchebag, Jeff."

He tosses his bangs out of his eyes with a whip of his head and Kurt's gaydar murmurs softly—but then Long Bangs leans forward and whispers something flirtatiously into Redhead's ear, and she smacks him on the shoulder. "Cut it out!"

"No, but seriously, Jeff," a guy with curly black hair speaks up. His eyes sparkle in good humor as he places a hand on Jeff's knee. "At the very least, your belt and shoes should match. It's just aesthetically pleasing."

Kurt snaps his head to investigate the speaker. The group of teenagers he's never met is a burst of color—a flirty redhead, the preppy blonde, an African-American girl with a million little braids, an well-dressed tanned Asian, and the guy Kurt suddenly can't keep his eyes off of. Curly black hair, expressive hazel eyes, dark eyebrows, and an impish grin on his face as he stares at Jeff intently. Then he turns to the African-American girl and says, "Com'on, Tasha, back me up."

Tasha shakes her head, her braids swinging haphazardly. "No way, Lady Boy," she snickers, leaning back against the redhead. "You tell him straight."

Not a name, but a valuable nugget of information. Is there really another guy in Lima like him? Another guy who feels the same way he does? Or is Tasha simply poking fun of him? Kurt's all ears now (and all eyes, but he's trying not to look suspicious).

Tasha continues on a side note, "Amanda, did you drink my caramel macchiato?"

Amanda tilts the cold drink in Jeff's direction, who in turn promptly takes a sip from the straw. "No."

"As much as I believe in one-on-one mentoring," the Asian guy speaks up, but is interrupted when the Speaker waggles his dark eyebrows suggestively.

Tasha rolls her eyes. "Can't Wes talk for more than five seconds without somebody interrupting him?"

Wes continues. "Anyways, I deem it necessary for a third opinion. Because Tasha is unwilling to cooperate and Jeff doesn't take his girlfriend seriously, and I make it a point to convince _my_ girlfriend that I do not preen myself every time I walk past a mirror—"

"You _are_ exceedingly well-dressed," Amanda argues in his high-handed drawl.

"—I just know what to wear," Wes interjects haughtily. "Nonetheless, this third party opinion must be found outside our group of comrades. You," he calls a bit louder, pointing at Kurt. "You, like me, seem to have an innate sense of style."

"Yeah," pipes up the Speaker, and he makes eye contact with Kurt. "Third party. Totally."

Kurt's heart stops. John's shy demeanor and ridiculously gorgeous traits definitely attract Kurt, but this interaction is different. A different part of Kurt's body, one above the belt, jerks in response to their eye contact.

"Ah, um, I've never seen you guys around before," he falters.

"Honey, we're all home schooled," Tasha grins, and outright laughs when Kurt's eyes bug out of his head. "It's Wes, right? His mom—"

"My mother has had little influence on my selection of clothing," Wes defends. "This is all me."

Kurt's eyes dart around their mess of features. "No way," he says in disbelief. "Home schooled? Here, in Lima?"

"We've all got pretty busy schedules that don't fit into the nine hour block that high school takes up," Amanda explains, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes manually.

"Most of the time we're in private sessions with Dakota Stanley," Jeff adds. "Hip hop to capoeira to ballroom."

"Dakota Stanley?" Kurt exclaims, looking around at each of them in alarm. "The Vocal Adrenaline choreographer?"

"He's a hard-ass," Tasha admits.

"He's also my dad," Amanda glares. "But yes, a hard-ass."

Kurt almost topples out of his seat.

Wes continues, "Anyways, we're all on the fast track out of secondary school so we can get into the professions as soon as possible, and that means community college, home schooling, and grueling sessions at the crack of dawn. By the way, I'm Wes."

"Amanda and Jeff."

"Tasha."

"Blaine." Blaine's eyes twinkle teasingly, and Kurt's heart drops. "Now, are you going to back me up?"

* * *

Bells on the door handle chime as Kurt steps out of the coffee shop. Blaine and his friends follow, but before Kurt can think of something to say in parting, Blaine reaches forward and grabs Kurt's hand, cupping it between his own. Kurt's breath catches in his throat. Blaine's hands are warm and slightly calloused, a delicate balance between rough and tender. But it's the expression in Blaine's eyes—bright, earnest, _interested_—that makes Kurt's heart skips a beat.

"Kurt, it was great meeting you," he expresses, still holding Kurt's hand in his own. "Sorry for leaving so early, but we've got to get to Amanda's house in fifteen minutes. See you here tomorrow?"

Kurt nods nervously and smiles. "Yeah. Wait, do you mean, like here?"

Blaine grins and releases Kurt's hand. "Like a coffee date, here," he laughs. The loss of warmth leaves Kurt startled, but he recovers himself before Blaine can turn around. Blaine's friends are already jogging down the street, and Amanda turns around to look for him.

"Blaine?" Kurt calls.

Blaine looks back at him. "Yeah?"

"I'm… I'm in a Glee club. We're putting on a performance tomorrow at the park. I… you…"

"I'll definitely be there," Blaine replies enthusiastically. "What time?"

"Blaine!" Amanda shouts from down the street. "Hurry up!"

"Two. In the afternoon."

Blaine nods once and sprints away. Kurt watches his retreating back, his hand still frozen in the same position Blaine left it in. Slowly, he lifts his fingers to his lips, imagining the feel of Blaine's fingers enveloping his own.

You really can't help who you fall for. But this time, Kurt has a sliver of hope to hold onto.

* * *

_Author's Note: Spring Break is here and I've splurged by writing a chapter for every story I haven't finished (that is, all six of them - Glee Project, Glee, Pokemon, Kingdom Hearts, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, and then this one!) I feel so accomplished... Welp, back to school work..._


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